


Loki and the Librarian

by coriolana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bechdel Test Pass, Bodyswap, F/M, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loki Feels, Mako Mori Test pass (I think), Mental Instability, Multiple Pov, Relationships are more about kicking ass than kissing face, Sass, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Snark, Some Humor, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, Thor Feels, coulson feels, feels all over the place, probably whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 59
Words: 156,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriolana/pseuds/coriolana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Loki swaps bodies with a human librarian, he doesn't expect she'll go mad—or that he'll lose his heart to her. </p><p>Set mainly after the events of AVENGERS. Liberal helpings of snark, sass, and feels. Will go to dark places (offscreen torture, hallucinations, effects of trauma). Lots of Thor/Loki brother angst.</p><p>[WIP, updated regularly, except when not.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Everlasting Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/403598) by [tinuelena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinuelena/pseuds/tinuelena). 



> 3/22/2014: [Cover art now available](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1353367), if you like that kind of thing.
> 
> 5/21/2014: Lauren Skaggs ([thetuxedos](http://thetuxedos.tumblr.com/)) sketched [Kate and Loki on a date](http://mylipsgrazeyourear.tumblr.com/post/86430228568/kate-and-loki-digital-sketch-2014-by-lauren) on Midgard. It is pretty flippin' fantastic.

## Prologue

 

They say that in the moment before death, your life will flash before your eyes. Your triumphs and your failures; your humiliations and your moments of pride; your brief grasps at peace, and your memories of chaos. You will remember the wrongs that were done to you, and ways you wronged others; and perhaps it is the one balm that death offers, that these moments exist only in the final flickers of lightning illuminating the dark reaches of the brain, and of the heart.

Death's balm is denied to Loki.

He falls, and as he falls, he lives again. From his earliest memory, a memory that is sightless and soundless, only the taste of ice, to his last: the sight of his brother's face, mouth open in a scream, his empty hand still reaching, fingers straining, toward Loki.

He remembers the wrongs that were done to him, and the ways he wronged others.

He remembers, and the memories drive him to madness.

\---

He is a mote of dust in a boundless sea, lost in the spaces between the stars, forever lost in a hell of emptiness and memory in which he is prisoner and jailor and torturer, and then he is not.

He lies with his cheek pressed against cold stone. When he breathes, oily grit coats his lips and coasts into his lungs. He coughs immediately, some part of him instinctively aware that he is inhaling the greasy dust of centuries of corpses, and he becomes aware of his body: it is a cage of bruised muscle and crazed bone, every joint bloodied as if he has clawed his way out of a stony grave. What remains of his armor drapes him like rotten netting.

"Loki Odinson."

He feels the voice more than he hears it; it rattles his cracked bones and makes him grit his teeth. He hasn't lifted his head yet, but he knows the owner of the voice is responsible for ending his fall, and therefore one of the most powerful beings he has yet encountered. Old instincts shake off dust and bare their teeth.

"That is not my name."

His arms tremble with the effort of raising his body from the rock. He intends to stand, but when he draws his knees beneath him, he knows the attempt would only embarrass him. He sits instead, supporting his weight with a hand as he coaxes an imitation of his old insouciance from limbs that beg for stillness. As he does, he raises his eyes.

He sits in the center of the only flat ground for as far as he can see. Around him, black rocks tumble in jagged piles, their blackness flat and light-absorbing, so that Loki squints and blinks, his sight confused. In the black sky, an angry red sun burns. Its bloody light makes the man before him more shadow than shape.

"Not Loki Odinson. What, then?" The man--no, not man, but man-shaped thing--steps toward Loki, and only Loki's excellent control of his reflexes stops his flinch. "What shall I call my new servant?"

"Call him whatever you like," Loki snaps, fighting to summon arrogance in the face of this looming monster. "I am Loki of Asgard, heir to the throne of Jotunheim, and I am no man's servant."

"Changeling prince, exiled from one kingdom and destroyer of another. You can claim neither Asgard nor Jotunheim, godling, and neither Asgard nor Jotunheim will claim you." The gleam of teeth appears in an impossibly wide mouth. "You are alone, Loki, in all the universe."

He knows it--he's always known it, in his gut, despite his superficial acceptance in Asgard, the false love of Thor and Frigga--but hearing it spoken by this sharp-toothed horror while sitting on blasted and broken ground under the light of a corpse star is different. He feels as if he is falling again and narrows his eyes.

"You say that as if it's not what I have known and desired for centuries."

The monster before him laughs, and Loki cannot keep from flinching this time. The horror doesn't seem to notice. "Alone," it says, that awful mouth opening even wider. "You? Ah, Loki. Aloneness is the only thing you truly fear." It leans forward--only a fraction, but every cell in Loki's body screams in terror at the thought of coming closer to that thing. "And you are right to fear it."

 

## Chapter 1

Kate Sullivan blew a dangling dark curl off her glasses and underlined a pair of lines in her book: _we would not die in that man's company / that fears his fellowship to die with us_.

"I thought it was your job to scold people who did that."

She raised her eyes, ready to sass the joker with the aged-bourbon voice, and found herself looking up . . . and up. Over six foot tall if he was an inch, skin like pages straight from the printer, hair black as ink, lips as wicked as a Caravaggio cherub. _I'll scold you_ , she thought, and held up her book.

"This one's mine," she said. "And it's pencil."

The man's bright green eyes focused on the pages, and she lowered the book quickly. "Can I help you?" she asked. The eyes turned to her. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt and a black tie, the jacket buttoned, every line of his clothes crisp. "Did you need guest access to a computer?" she guessed, and reached for the stack of notecards printed with the library's access information.

"Not at the moment," he said. She stopped with her fingertips resting on the notecards and looked at the man again, surprised. "I was hoping to look at the Martinsson collection, but I notice the doors to the upper levels are locked, and the elevators don't seem to be working."

Research? At eleven thirty at night? In those clothes? She blinked. He wasn't a professor--they knew that the main library, this library, closed its stacks except for the ground floor at ten, and besides, professors didn't dress that well. An eccentric donor, then, making a visit to see what his oil bucks had bought? But usually the university was careful to assign someone from the development office to shepherd donors across the campus. "We close the upper floors at ten," she said. "You can come back tomorrow at seven."

He grimaced. "I was hoping to look at some materials tonight. I won't be in town tomorrow."

_I have a paper due tomorrow. I can't be here in the morning. I'm going home for the weekend._ Kate had heard plenty of excuses from plenty of people--students and faculty alike--and nine times out of ten, her response was a sympathetic smile and as many versions of "nope, not gonna happen" as was required to get the unlucky individual out of her face. Occasionally, though, she met a student who could beg convincingly enough--or politely enough--that she'd listen and fetch a book or two. She wasn't supposed to leave her desk, but there really wasn't anyone here late enough to enforce that rule. She considered the well-dressed man in front of her. "I guess you'll have to come back another day, then."

His mouth tightened, and a flash of something dark crossed his eyes. Her hand had just started to twitch from the cards toward the desk phone when the menace shifted to intentness, as if her face was a card catalogue he could search with nimble fingers. "I suppose I'll take the guest computer, then," he said.

No one--not even the most polite, downtrodden students--gave up that quickly. She repeated the sign-on instructions in her usual sing-song, then handed him a card. He took it with long, spidery fingers, and she wished--just for a second--that their skin would brush. Then he was striding away, and she divided her attention between the surprisingly tight seat of the man's pants and his equally surprising long hair, the ends curling over his collar like fishhooks. Would they prick her finger if she touched them? she thought, whimsically, then made herself look away from the man. From her desk, positioned next to the main entrance and the self-checkout machine, she could see across most of the middle of the library: the group-work tables and the computer terminals, the low-rise "popular" book stacks and the snack machines along the back wall. From a program on her computer, she could access eight floors of live-feed cameras that covered much of the rest of the main floor, almost all of the audiovisual materials area, and parts of the stacks on the upper floors. She clicked on the program and toggled between sets of cameras. The upper floor camera feeds were a grainy gray, the upper floors' energy-saving, motion-sensitive lights all dormant. She found the main floor cameras and flipped between cameras until she found the well-dressed man. He sat at an empty computer, well away from the chip-munching, paper-shuffling, headphone-wearing students, but didn't make any move to touch the keyboard or the mouse.

Maybe, Kate thought, he'd be one of the rare ones who actually tried to get into the stacks. She pursed her lips, an odd little thrill of anxiety and excitement running through her. Rarely--very rarely--a student or a professor would decide that they absolutely HAD to get into the upper floors for something--usually a lost laptop or bag, but once in a while, they really did have their hearts set on a book--and they'd try to find a way around the locks on the doors. They were just allen-wrench locks, easy to identify and easier still to open if you had the right tool, and maybe once or twice a semester someone who wasn't supposed to would actually manage to get into the upper floors. At that point, she was supposed to call campus security and file an incident report, and if the offender was a student, there'd be a campus discipline meeting; if it was a professor, sometimes they called the department head and sometimes they didn't--that was a library manager decision.

Kate leaned in, watching the feed. The man was still just sitting there. He didn't reach for the computer, or pull out his phone to complain to some administrator somewhere, or let his head fall back for a nap. He just sat. Kate looked across the main floor. He was hidden by a portion of bookshelves that had been responsible for mischief in the past; pursing her lips in irritation, she looked at the video feed again.

He wasn't there.

She looked up, intending to see where he was walking to, but she didn't see him. She looked at the monitor. Across the library. At the monitor again.

_Weird_. She clicked through the different video feeds, intending to cycle back to the beginning, and stopped abruptly when she saw that one of the upstairs video feeds had gone from grainy, nondescript gray to lights-on black and white, the stacks making diagonal lines across the screen. She frowned.

He couldn't have snuck into the stacks that fast. She checked the label on the video feed and snorted. The sixth floor--there had to be a faulty electrical sensor at work. It had to be--

Another video feed flickered to life. A tall figure strode across the corner of the screen. She blinked in sudden recognition. The sixth floor. The Martinsson collection. It WAS him.

_Rich asshole_ , she thought, and looked at the phone. Proper library procedure was to call campus security and send them up to roust the guy. That would take time, though, and despite the intense vibe she’d gotten off the guy, she didn't think he was dangerous. She chewed her lip for a moment, then picked up her phone and sent a text to her supervisor, explaining what she was doing, before tucking her phone in her pocket and sticking her "librarian is away, please wait" sign on her desk.

She counted the seconds under her breath as she climbed the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. At the top, she pushed through the doors, breathing hard. There hadn't been nearly enough time for mystery guy to get all the way up the steps, she thought, and even when the elevator wasn't locked, it didn't move fast enough to deliver the dude to this floor without her noticing some of his motion. Something's weird, she thought, and strode into the special collections room. The well-dressed man sat at one of the tables, looking through a book.

"Quick to respond, I see. I assume you have some kind of surveillance . . . unless, of course, you were following me," he said, without looking up.

"You're not supposed to be here," Kate said in her best mean-librarian voice. "If you want to take what you're reading right now downstairs, fine, but you're not allowed to be on this floor."

"And if I don't, I suppose you'll call the police academy dropouts to remove me," he said, turning a page before putting his finger on a line halfway down the page and following it to the end of its paragraph.

His refusal to look at her was irritating. She glared at the top of his head. The implied arrogance—that he had enough money that the rules didn't apply to him—nettled her into forgetting her usual mental filter. "No. I'll go downstairs, get one of those godawful energy drinks out of the vending machine, and dump it on your suit."

That made him look up. Instead of outrage, though, a surprised grin spread across the man's face. "Why, Ms. Sullivan. Threatening battery on behalf of your books? It appears my first impression of you was entirely mistaken."

She blinked. She had an ID badge for the library, but it was in her pocket, not around her neck. The grin turned into a smirk, and she bit back her question. However he'd learned her name, he had used it to distract her. A tight smile twitched her lips. _Fine, then_ , she thought, and turned on her heel.

\--

Behind her, the well-dressed man watched the librarian leave. One black eyebrow arched in surprise as she disappeared without another word. She hadn't struck him as the kind to walk away from an argument, but he supposed he'd spent little enough time with Midgardians.

The metallic tone of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts. He retrieved it from his inner jacket pocket and held it to his ear. "Barton."

His hawk brought news—good news for the Chitauri, and bad for him. His mind-controlled pets were far more efficient than he'd hoped. He pursed his lips and listened, and when Barton finished his report, he ended the call with a sour twist to his mouth. He was needed. His research to find a weapon that could destroy Thanos would have to wait until the next time he could sneak away from his busily plotting army.

Instead of leaving, he looked down at the open book before him. He had told Thanos he would assist in its plans for the Chitauri because the alternative to agreeing was an immediate death. As with most of his promises, though, he had little intention of fulfilling this one in the way that Thanos imagined. The sharp-toothed bastard thought he could order Loki to his bidding? Loki would be happy to punish that arrogance.

He had not expected the staff to prove so effective a tool of control, nor the Chitauri to climb into his head. It had been exhilarating, for a moment, to see the blue light of enchantment settle into Barton's eyes—to feel the staff shift in his hands, becoming blade, cannon, cane, answering his every need, the perfect weapon. Then that six-fingered cretin had whispered into his head, and he had realized his mind was no longer entirely his own.

One hand rose unconsciously to stroke his mouth. His mind—his deadliest weapon, his impenetrable fortress, his one private, untouchable reserve—corrupted by a space cockroach and its purple-faced master. His hand curled into a fist. He had laid a false trail of memories for the Chitauri to find—if it probed Loki's mind now, it would see Loki plunging himself into a Midgardian woman, gasping with his release. The false memories would delay discovery of Loki's treachery, but the necessity of it—of hiding from the Chitauri within his _own mind_ —

He snarled without a sound, his other hand curling into a fist.

Yes. He would be glad to punish Thanos.

The clang of a metal door opening echoed across the floor, recalling him to the moment. He looked up, searching for the librarian and her security officer, and nearly barked with laughter when he saw her. Clutched in one hand—like her very own spear of destiny—was a bright yellow drink can.

_Well, I shan't have my fine clothes ruined,_ he thought, smiling, and made himself invisible. The librarian passed behind a bookcase and arrived in the same spot she'd stood before, then stopped, the whites of her eyes widening behind her glasses. Her head turned slowly, searching every corner of the room. Her lips were parted in astonishment. The color of her skin reminded him of the purple roses that grew in one of the quieter corners of Frigga's gardens, and for a moment, he wondered if her lips would feel like the firm silk of their petals. _I could find out_ , he thought, and his own lips curled in pleasure at the thought of kissing the librarian without revealing himself.

She finished searching the room with her eyes and frowned, pressing her lips together as if she'd heard him. _Enough mischief for now,_ he told himself, and started to rise from his seat.

The librarian walked toward him, straight into his path. He settled back into the chair a moment before she leaned over his shoulder, looking at the book he'd taken from the shelf. He removed his hands from the table before she rested her weight on her palm and began to run her finger down the page. He watched her, holding his breath, a smile curling his lips again at the situation: trapped, invisible, by the mortal's presence. From this angle, he could admire the determined line of her jaw as she focused on the page. Her finger stopped moving, pointing at the paragraph he had been reading. She leaned in.

_She's trying to figure out what I was looking for_ , he realized. She had remembered his gesture from moments ago and had imitated it to find what he was looking for. He watched a corkscrew curl escape from behind her ear and dangle before her eyes. His smile widened. Delicately, he reached out and tucked the curl back behind her ear.

At first, she didn't notice. Then she blinked, and her head jerked away from the page at the same time as her hand flew to her hair. Her fingertips found the problematic curl tucked behind her ear, and her eyes narrowed. She looked toward him, then away, then turned in a full circle as if perhaps he had snuck up behind her.

He closed his mouth tightly to keep in the laugh he wanted to release. It was too delightful—like teasing a cat with a feather. Her eyes were wary now, darting from one corner of the room to the other, the drink can raised halfway before her like the most useless sword ever forged. Her eyes narrowed, and almost too quickly for him to react, she turned to the chair he was sitting in and pushed it. He caught the beginning of the gesture just in time and stood before her hand contacted the frame, though not without bumping his thighs against the table. The chair scraped against the floor at the same times as his pants whispered against the edge of the table. The librarian blinked and looked at the table, then back at the chair.

He backed out of reach, still smiling. _You've had your fun,_ he told himself, _time to go_. But something about the librarian's eyes kept him in place. Perhaps it was the absence of fear; perhaps it was the presence of anger, a look that reminded him of a predator denied its prey. She should have looked ridiculous—puny little Midgardian, starting at shadows, armed with sixteen ounces of sugar water—but she didn't.

_Delightful creature,_ he thought, and finally turned his back on her to walk away. _I do hope you survive the war._


	2. Chapter 2

The next night, when the security camera feed flickered and went from gray to black-and-white, Kate didn't even hesitate before slapping her _librarian away_ sign onto the desk and hurrying up the stairs. The well-dressed man sat in the exact same spot as the first time she saw him, examining the same book.

"No energy drink this time?" he asked without looking up.

_He must have sneaked past me_ , Kate told herself, but a part of her didn't believe it. She crossed her arms. "You know, there's no point in sitting up here."

"Oh? Why is that? Campus security's on their way, I suppose?"

"Because all the books on Naegling are downstairs."

The well-dressed man looked up sharply, and Kate nearly took a step back at the ferocity of his gaze.

"Really," he said, his voice a low, lethal purr. The sound set things fluttering in her belly—mostly scared things, but a few weren't. She made herself square her shoulders.

"I told you. The stacks close at ten."

Surprise flickered across those bright green eyes, then amusement. "You brought the books you thought I'd want downstairs. So that neither of us would have to break your precious rules."

"Patron service is our first priority," Kate said, giving the words the same sniffy pronunciation that her boss's boss always used. The well-dressed man dragged his eyes from her face to her feet like a sweaty hand.

"Do you serve all your patrons so thoughtfully?"

For a moment, she saw white. _Fucking rich misogynist asshole._ With effort, she restrained the pungency of her language. "Of course," she said, struggling to make her voice sweet. "We do our best to meet the needs of all our patrons, regardless of ability."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "How considerate," he said, and stood. "Please. After you."

She had noticed that he was tall yesterday; standing next to him, she realized that he towered over her by a good five or six inches. She'd met only a handful of men who were taller than her; it was strange to look _up_ into his face. Suddenly aware that she was staring, she turned away and started to walk.

He followed her—not too closely or too quickly, but his presence at her back made her nervous nonetheless. She crossed the sixth floor and descended the steps, trying to pinpoint what about the man made her so nervous. His knowledge of her name, definitely; the way he'd gotten past the locked doors—twice; the attitude toward rules, for sure; but more than any of those things, she thought, it was his eyes. His eyes and his walk. He had a madman's stare and a caged tiger's stride.

They reached the ground floor and Kate led him across the lobby, to one of the group-study rooms. At the beginning of her shift, she'd taped a sign saying _broken computer_ to the window and stacked the books inside on the round table. No one had disturbed them.

She held the door open with one hand and gestured with the other. "All the books from the Martinsson collection on Scandinavian poetry and mythology. You can access our catalogue through the computer. Anything we have at this branch, I can find for you. Just _ask._ "

The well-dressed man stood in the doorway, looking at the gray cloth-covered walls and the whiteboard with its ghosts of scurrilous graffiti and equations, the waiting computer screen and its keyboard and mouse, the blond fake-wood table and its four cheap rolling chairs, the neat stacks of books. He raised one thin, black eyebrow. "The computer's not broken, then."

She thanked God for her dark skin as heat rose in her cheeks. He wasn't accusing her of lying, because he didn't know she'd put the sign in the window to keep the undergrads from disturbing the books. And besides, it wasn't lying, not if you weren't saying it to someone's face. Anyone could have walked in and checked on the computer if they really needed one . . . "No," she said, taking her train of thought firmly in hand. "Like I said. Ask me if you need anything."

The well-dressed man inclined his head. She started to back away.

"Ms. Sullivan," he said softly. She stopped in the middle of turning away. "I looked at the library website yesterday, before I arrived. I am blessed—or cursed—with an excellent memory. That's how I happened to know your name."

He gave the explanation like it was an apology, his green eyes fixed on her face with the boldness of a confident liar. She bit back the urge to question him over the other names on the library website, and said, instead, "You never said yours."

His mouth gave an odd twitch, like he'd been elbowed. "Frost," he said. "You can call me Mr. Frost."

"Welcome to the library, Mr. Frost," she said, giving a little bow of her own. "Let me know if you need anything. And don't wander off."

A pleased smile slid across his face, and Kate held back her shiver until the door was closed. The man was dangerous in more ways than one.

\---

The books were useless.

Loki shoved the last tome away, lip curling in disgust. _One hour in the royal library,_ he thought, surveying the books before him and their pages of lies and misrepresentations and children's stories. _One hour in the royal library, and I could find the information I need._

_Assuming the damned thing exists at all_.

He stared blindly at the wall, facing his doubt. Perhaps he wasn't remembering the story correctly—it had been more than two millennia ago, after all—or perhaps it was _only_ a story, a bedtime tale to put little godlings in their place. Not that it had ever worked on Thor. Or him, for that matter.

_"Long ago, when the ways between worlds were as easily travelled as the path through your mother's garden, the people of Midgard were greatly troubled by mischief-makers from Asgard. These wicked Aesir would come to Midgard in disguise and walk among the people, challenging them to races and wrestling matches. They stole the prettiest women and men, and their fighting and racing left the homes and fields of the Midgardians in shambles._

_Greatly angered, the leaders of the Midgardians joined together and travelled to Asgard, where they demanded that Borr bring his unruly people to heel. Borr ordered the Aesir to cease visiting Midgard and placed guards at all the major ways, but in those days, there were too many ways to guard them all, and some Aesir still defied his orders to make merry on Midgard. So Borr ordered his blacksmiths to forge six swords of unusual strength and magic, each in the style of a different Midgardian tribe, and he called all the Aesir together before the Midgardian leaders._

_'These swords have been forged by the wisest and most skilled blacksmiths of Asgard,' he told them. 'Their edges shall never dull, and their blades shall never break. A single scratch from one of these blades will kill a mortal; a single blow will kill even the mightiest of the Aesir.' He sent the Midgardians from his hall, well-pleased with their gifts._

_Afterward, many of the Aesir came to Borr, saying, 'O wise king, why have you given the mortals such dangerous gifts? For surely many will perish under these blades.' Borr looked upon them and said, 'Those blades are no more dangerous to the mortals than their own weapons; for they are weak, and short-lived. The only ones who should fear these blades are the ones who did not fear the Midgardians before, for now, death may wait for them around any corner.'"_

Borr; what a fool. Faced with subjects who feared him so little that they defied him openly, he made weapons that could accomplish even his own destruction and handed them to the Midgardians, of all people.

Loki shook his head and glared at the books. _Didn't even bother to keep track of the damned things,_ he thought, and gave the nearest book a shove. The Midgardians had dozens—hundreds—of legends of enchanted swords. Any one of them might have been one of the six swords.

Or none of them, he reminded himself. The six swords had been forged long ago, and in the careless hands of mortals, it was entirely possible that they had been destroyed. Or had never existed in the first place, Loki thought, his abstracted gaze sharpening. If he were Borr—well, if he had been Borr, he would have executed every one of the treacherous Aesir that defied his will. But if he were the Borr of Odin's story, then he would have given the mortals six ordinary swords, and simply said that they were magic. The mortals wouldn't have known the difference, and the Aesir had clearly been too cowardly to test his words.

The door to the tiny room opened, and Loki's gaze flew to the door, his entire body tensing for a fight despite the improbability of the Chitauri's appearance. In the doorway, the librarian saw something in him that turned her casual approach into a wary hunch of her shoulders. He forced himself to lounge in the cheap chair. "Ms. Sullivan," he said, conjuring his most distracting purr. "Come to serve the patron?"

She straightened, those lovely lips flattening in annoyance. "I came to see if you were finding what you were looking for," she said. Her eyes flicked to the table, where Loki had cleared the space before him of books. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

A weapon to kill a god. The forgiveness of Odin and Frigga and Thor. A second chance. Loki forced a smile to his lips. "No, I don't think so."

The woman tilted her head, her body inclining fractionally toward him. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

He arched a brow. "Do I look as if I've been successful?" he challenged. The woman rested her free hand on the doorframe.

"What _is_ it that you're looking for? Maybe I can help."

A mortal woman, offering to help him—Loki, the greatest sorcerer of Asgard, once king, now leader of a numberless horde of conquest-hungry aliens? He smiled, and he knew it was not a kind smile.

"I'm looking for a magic sword. One of six magic swords given by King Borr to humanity more than three millennia ago." He waved his hand at the books contemptuously. "Your records are terrible. I would have expected mankind to keep better track of a collection of weapons that could kill gods."

The woman's eyebrows rose, and she smiled, half her mouth turning up. "Why? Do you have a god you need to kill?"

_So many._

"I do," he said. His phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and grimaced. Selvig. He looked at the librarian again. "Alas, I doubt that I will be doing so tonight. If you will excuse me, Ms. Sullivan."

She nodded and backed away, closing the door behind her, and if Loki had been paying closer attention, he would have noticed the thoughtful gleam in her eye, and reconsidered his casual dismissal.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, it occurred to Kate—several times—that Frost might not return to the library. He hadn't found what he wanted, after all; and whatever business he was in, it seemed to draw him away frequently. She went on researching anyway, motivated as much by her own dogged curiosity as a desire to send a look of shock through those greenglass eyes.

There were, it seemed, hundreds of legends about magic swords. Fortunately, other people had started the legwork of cataloguing them. She began with the most basic lists, copying the pertinent details—name, country of origin, the earliest known appearance in legend—and quickly decided to filter by time period. Three millennia, Frost had mentioned—that helped narrow it down. She checked on her world history and made notes of the major civilizations around 1000 BCE, then went back to her lists of magic swords. With geography and time to limit her search, her lists became much shorter.

_What did he mean, "I'm looking for a magic sword"?_ Kate wondered. _He's looking for the story? Or the sword itself?_ Maybe he was some kind of collector. But wouldn't he go to an expert, then, instead of trying to find out the history himself?

She puzzled over the question as she read through internet postings and books, and as she organized her notes. When she grew tired of chasing her thoughts, she gritted her teeth and told herself that probably Frost wouldn't show up at all and it wouldn't matter. He'd go to some other library or call someone who actually knew about these kinds of things. He wouldn't show up at her library for a third night in a row when the first two had yielded absolutely nothing.

She was halfway to believing he wouldn't appear when the main doors opened and a gust of unseasonably cold air blew in. She looked up, and there he was: the same ridiculously well-tailored suit, accessorized tonight with a green silk scarf and a gold cane. She barely managed to stop her eyeroll before it started. He stopped before her desk, eyebrows lifting as if he knew what she was thinking.

"Ms. Sullivan."

"Mr. Frost," she said back, imitating his formal tone, then bent to dig her papers from her backpack. "I was hoping I'd see you . . ."

"I regret that I won't be able to enjoy the resources of your library tonight, Ms. Sullivan, as I have a pressing engagement . . ."

She found the papers and popped back up, then laid them on the counter before him. "That's fine, this'll just take a minute," she said, a gleeful anticipation building in her stomach.

Frost looked down at the papers, then at her. "And what is 'this'?"

She tapped the top page. "Swords. Magic. Legendary. Part of the culture of civilizations that existed three thousand years ago." She'd made a list of seven weapons, plus one empire—the Olmec—that could have had legends that were lost, then gone into more detail on the following pages. It was a neat bit of research, if she did say so herself. "These are the ones that fit your criteria."

She had hoped for a look of surprise—maybe even shock—but instead, Frost's face was utterly still as he examined the papers, only his eyes alive. His pale skin had reminded her of book pages when she first saw it; now it reminded her of the white stone of the Elgin marbles. And as she had when she'd faced the Elgin marbles, she felt a sudden, inappropriate urge to touch those cold, perfect planes.

On the other side of the atrium, a student dashed from her seat at a computer to the elevators. Normally, Kate would have gotten up to warn her, but Frost's stillness trapped her with a combination of anticipation at his reaction and a sense that her movement would disturb something important. She studied him as he read, searching for the reason for her feelings.

Despite the initial impression of perfection, there were signs of weariness in Frost's face. His mouth fell naturally into a tired frown as he read, his shoulders sliding forward just a fraction out of their usual arrogant alignment. She was watching him so closely that when he spread one spidery hand over the papers, she twitched in surprise.

The movement made him raise his eyes. "This is quite good," he said, and Kate was briefly lost as her mind combed the statement for sarcasm or insult and found nothing. He flattened his hand over the papers possessively, and his eyes turned intent. "Do you know where they are?"

_I would like that look directed at me while naked,_ Kate thought for a second, then blinked. _Where they were? So he was a collector._ She bit her lip and looked at the paper. "Well, they're legendary swords. A few of them—like Naegling—part of the legend is how they were eventually destroyed. Others . . . they got buried with the king that wielded them, or they were hidden away to keep them safe until they were needed, or they just disappeared. I mean, people have looked. But." She shrugged. "There's a couple in museums that are _supposed_ to be these legendary swords, but no one really knows that for sure."

She didn't realize that part of the brightness in Frost's eyes was hope until she saw it die. A nervousness she'd been trying to ignore crawled up out of the pit of her stomach. _He really believes these things exist,_ she thought. _He really wanted to find them. Or one of them, anyway._ She watched him draw himself up, his face and his body changing in a dozen tiny, unidentifiable ways that turned him back into a man of marble and aristocracy. _What the hell is going on here? Where did this guy come from? How can he be so obviously rich and still believe that legends are real, and that he's seriously going to find clues to their existence with the help of a junior librarian at a public college in Albany?_

"I thank you for your assistance, Ms. Sullivan," he said, and he started to walk away, then stopped, some conflicting thought warring behind those green eyes. "You should know . . ." He stopped, his brows drawing together as if displeased with the inadequacy of the words he was considering, before continuing. "You should know that all things are more complicated than they appear. And also . . ." His gaze intensified, and Kate wanted to lean back, away from it. "In another time, if things were—different . . . the histories would name you hero, Kate Sullivan, for what you have done."

She couldn't breathe. _Hero? What the hell?_ Her confusion must have shown on her face, but Frost didn't seem to notice, his eyes on her but his mind on other things. Weariness settled on his face. "But I fear none of us may live to see those histories written. Especially not me." The corners of his mouth curled upward. "I suppose all that's left is to put on one last good show."

He bowed, quickly and elegantly, before she could translate _what the fuck, man_ into a more polite and specific request for information, then he was gone, one last flash of elegant coat and long leg and mad green eye before disappearing out the door. Her mouth hung open for half a second before she remembered to close it.

A student came up to complain about paper in the printers (not her department, the copy shop's problem), interrupting a chain of thought that consisted mainly of _what in the utter fuck was_ that. When she finished explaining to the student that he was shit out of luck, she sat back in her chair and slid the papers off the counter and onto her desk. She looked at them without reading them.

He had to be crazy. Crazy rich guy, looking for Arthur's sword or something like that. She tapped her fingers on the table, faster and faster, until finally she growled and turned to her computer. She buried herself in social media for an hour, making herself respond to even the most inane material her friends had posted in an effort to distract herself. She was down to the last messages on her least-checked site when an alert pinged somewhere. She sifted through pages until she found it: a notification that someone had responded to a post she'd made yesterday asking about magic swords. She sighed and clicked through, guessing that she'd get a link to the same dozen sites she'd trawled earlier, but the response wasn't about legends; it was about a book.

_Sounds like_ The Lake Queen, user Mythtique91 had written. _I think part of the worldbuilding is about these six magic swords that came from another dimension. One of the MCs has one of them, and it's this badass sword that kills anything._

Kate looked up the description, then checked the library's catalogue, grabbed her _librarian away_ sign, and went up into the stacks. When she came back, she had to put the book down and trouble-shoot a student's forgotten campus password for five minutes, then call maintenance to deal with a terrifying toilet situation, then negotiate with a student who didn't want to pay his ten dollar library fine so he could register for next fall's classes, so it was close to an hour later when she finally got to pick up the book. Fortunately, she didn't have to skim far before she came across the relevant bit of book:

_Greyking rested a scarred hand on the proud hilt of his sword. "Do not challenge me, peasant, for this is the Wellspring: were I to draw it, your life would be forfeit, ended in a shower of blood. It is an ancient weapon, and powerful, forged under the light of strange suns and entrusted to my many-times father by the gods themselves. Only five like it exist in all the world; and their bites will bleed god and man alike."_

Kinda over the top, but that sounded about right, Kate thought. So maybe the author had come across the same story that Frost had heard. She was interrupted by a pair of students who wanted access to one of the locked study rooms, and after she came back, she started searching for interviews with the author of _The Lake Queen_ , Desdemona Brabantio _._ Most weren't terribly helpful; _The Lake Queen_ was an old book, published pre-internet, so most of the interviews didn't even mention it. The only clue that Kate could find was a line from an old bio that said Brabantio had spent a summer as an intern on an archeological dig in Sweden while she was a student. _Maybe she came across the legend then,_ Kate thought. She found Brabantio's website, clicked her contact link, opened an email, and bit her lip. After half an hour of trying, she had written a letter that didn't sound too deranged, but wasn't too vague, either.

Frost's words tonight had sounded an awful lot like he wasn't planning on coming back to the library. And it wasn't like he'd left her any way to contact him, either. If she emailed Brabantio and Brabantio had something to say, well, there wasn't anything she could do with it, was there? _Unless she told you something that let you figure out where the sword was, and then you could go there, and show up right at the same time as Frost, and he'd be so impressed with you that he'd_ —

Her thoughts progressed to the X-rated rapidly, and she shook her head. _Get a grip, Sullivan,_ she told herself, and moved her cursor to the discard button. She let it hover there for a moment before sliding it back to the send button and clicking. _I'm not going to do anything stupid,_ she promised herself. _I just want to know where her version of the story came from._

She stared at her email inbox for a few seconds before resolutely closing every window that had any sort of bearing on Frost's research and turning to _The Lake Queen._ She was a dozen pages beyond Thomas Greyking's phallic posturing when she heard the tinny sound of computer speakers turned up to their maximum coming from across the atrium. Her head popped up and the book settled to her desk. She searched for the source of the noise and found it easily: all the students in the vicinity of one of the computer tables had gathered around one monitor. She got up and walked over, getting ready to deliver a lecture on the proper use of headphones in the library. When she reached the computer, though, all thoughts of lectures disappeared from her head.

The noise was the sound of a news livefeed, a flustered reporter standing in a European-looking square and speaking with a British accent under sodium-yellow lights while casting frequent, nervous looks behind her, in the direction of a bunch of flashing emergency vehicles. The camera broke away from her to a helicopter lifting off, then cut to a sequence of grainy cell phone videos and slightly-less-grainy photos: some kind of fancy party, except everyone was running away from a man in a fancy suit who was holding another man down on a table; then off-center images of the same man walking away, holding a gold stick, and a different man wearing some kind of crazy warrior costume with giant horns—

Kate's mouth dropped open. The newsfeed went back to the reporter, who was talking to someone; she faced the camera and delivered some bit of news that made the station switch back to their in-studio talking heads for a few seconds before they replayed the video and the photos that they had played moments before. A man in a fancy suit held another man down on a table, and he jabbed the man with some kind of metal knife thing—

No. _No way._

Some of the students turned to talk to each other and caught sight of her. She ignored them and leaned closer to the computer monitor. That couldn't be Frost. Except—the green scarf—and that stupid cane—

Mad green eyes passed over the bystander who had been holding the camera, then came back to him for a fraction of a second before the camera-holder broke and ran.

_"We're getting word that officials with an international task force have the suspected terrorist in custody. German police have the city center contained and are searching for possible accomplices as well as explosive devices. The death toll in this vicious attack is unconfirmed, but we believe at least two security officers as well as an unnamed man have died . . ."_

_A terrorist._ Her mind rebelled immediately. _He couldn't have gotten from here to Germany in less than six hours,_ she thought. _That's not Frost. That can't be Frost._

_All things are more complicated than they appear,_ he had said.

_All that's left is to put on one last good show._

Two or three of the students were looking at her now. She made an effort to collect herself and waved them away, then took a deep breath and told the student whose computer was streaming the news feed to put on headphones. The group dispersed with a few grumbles; as she walked back to her station, she noticed that only one of the students she'd waved away had gone back to her computer and found the same newsfeed. The others had returned to their homework or their games or their chats or their bootleg television series. As easy as snapping fingers, they were back to normalcy.

She sat at her desk and immediately turned to her keyboard. Within moments, she had the newsfeed that the student had been looking at on one tab, a social media feed on another, and she was sifting through news sites on the third. Live coverage dropped off after a few minutes, but half-exposed photos and shaky videos kept showing up on social media, and she combed them with the intensity of desperation. _There's got to be a good picture of the guy in here somewhere. Something that'll show that Frost and this guy just shop at the same Villains' Wearhouse . . ._

When she found the photo she wanted, though, she was not reassured. Someone had gotten access to a security camera and pulled a still photo of the Dresden Terrorist looking directly at the camera. It was Frost, right down to the fishhook hair.

"Fuck," she said aloud, then looked around to make sure no one had heard her. The library was nearly empty; when she checked the clock, she realized she was late for her we-close-in-half-an-hour warning walkthrough. Her head full of confusion, she walked her usual route double-quick, catching the eye of students wearing headphones and warning others in a low voice. She rousted a couple making out in a corner and glared until the pair of them packed up and left, then finished her circle back to her computer. By then, the campus security officer who was supposed to help her close up the library was waiting at her desk.

"Hey, Craig," she said, and waved. "Give me five seconds to finish up something on my computer, and we'll get going."

He nodded and leaned his hip against the counter. "Take your time, Kate."

She copied the addresses of the websites she'd been visiting and emailed them to herself, and took screenshots of the most useful photos and saved them. _Paranoid, much?_ she asked herself, and clenched her teeth. Maybe. But she wasn't going to lose those photos to the vastness of the internet. She saved copies to a thumbdrive just for extra-extra paranoid measure, then pocketed it. Craig leaned over the counter, his keys jingling.

"You ready, Kate?" he asked, and she flicked her fingers through the last keystrokes she needed to log out.

"Yeah, sorry. I just didn't want to lose this stuff." She grabbed her own set of keys from the desk, and they retraced her earlier route through the library. Most of the students she'd walked by earlier had already cleared out, and almost all of the others started packing up and shutting down when they saw her and Craig coming, but as usual, there were a handful that had to be talked into leaving. Once they'd cleared the bottom floor, she let Craig into the stairwell so he could double-check the upper floors, and she began going through the computer stations, making sure that all the terminals were logged out.

_Can't be Frost_ , she told herself over and over. _Can't be, can't be._ But the argument with herself was futile, and she knew it. Frost had made her nervous from the second she had met him, and everything he'd done and said in her presence only reinforced that there was something odd about him, something off. She just hadn't expected . . . whatever this was.

_Terrorism?_ she suggested sarcastically. _Murder? Psychopathy? Gee, why not?_

She completed her computer rounds and did a quick sweep for left-behind personal items, then walked back to the front desk, where she turned the lights down, returned the desk keys to their regular drawer, and packed up her personal stuff. After Craig finished his sweep of the upper floors, he waited while she set the alarm and locked the doors, then walked her to her car. Craig caught her up on the baseball scores while they walked; she didn't particularly like the game, but Craig had somehow gotten the idea that she did, and she'd accidentally let him go on telling her the scores for so long that she thought it'd be rude if she changed the subject before he finished. When they reached her car, he waited until it started, then gave her a wave and started back toward campus.

She let out a breath and turned her car toward the two-bedroom apartment that passed for home. It was close enough to campus to walk to the library, but she didn't trust the neighborhood at night—too many drunk fratboys and muggers waiting for drunk fratboys. Flashing yellow lights greeted her at the intersections as she drove; she drove slowly and defensively, watching for idiots coming home from the bars. As she turned onto her street, she crossed her fingers on the steering wheel. If she was lucky, her roommate, Kinsley, would be asleep; if not, she'd probably have to listen to fifteen minutes of "oh my god, Katie, you will NOT believe what happened on Vampire Diaries" while she microwaved a late dinner. Not that Kinsley's recaps weren't funny as hell—she had majored in literature and gender studies in college, and her skewering of the show was littered with literary and mythological references—but Kate had something else on her mind.

She parked at the curb, behind Kinsley's bumper-sticker-covered Jetta (Coexist! Hate is not a family value! DMB!) and checked the upstairs windows of their duplex. No light. Good sign. She hauled her bag over her shoulder and cut across the lawn, kicking a few dead leaves as she went, then let herself in. The narrow steps creaked under their covering of stained brown industrial carpet as she climbed them; at the top, the always-on floor lamp glowed in the corner, casting a sympathetic light on their tired couch and chipped coffee table and milk crates of TV: _Angel_ and _Buffy_ and _Dollhouse_ for Kinsley, _Firefly_ and _X-Files_ and _Dark Angel_ and _Pretender_ for Kate. (They had joint custody of _Alias._ )

Kate dropped her messenger bag on the kitchen table and pulled dinner out of the freezer. While it heated, she tiptoed down the hallway to her bedroom and found her laptop by touch where she'd left it, on top of the dresser by the door. She carried it under her arm back to the kitchen and opened it on the table, then accessed her email and found the websites she'd been reading at the library. She paused to retrieve her dinner when the microwave beeped, took two bites, and forgot about its existence.

The conspiracists had gotten their teeth into the news. Comments had started popping up, asking about the "international task force" that had appeared so quickly to collect what was, after all, just one guy—one guy with some kind of hand-held laser cannon, true, but did it really require an _international_ task force to take him into custody?

Kate discounted the comments with the strongest whiff of "9-11 was an inside job" crazy, but when she saw a third mention of an organization called the "strategic homeland intervention, enforcement, and logistics division", she started poking around. The resulting dive into message boards, MySpace pages, and blurry-image-heavy websites kept her busy until the sky outside the kitchen window was pinkish with pre-dawn light.

The text blurred, and she rubbed her eyes, bumping her cold burrito with her elbow. Grimacing, she wiped a smear of crushed pinto off her arm, then leaned on the table.

_You should know that all things are more complicated than they appear._

_If things were_ — _different . . . the histories would name you hero, Kate Sullivan._

She ground the heels of her hands into her watering eyes. _He's a crazy terrorist. Who cares why he wanted to know about magical swords? All those times he took off, he was probably running off to plan his terrorist crap._

But so many things didn't add up: the impossible appearing and disappearing; the belief that magic was real; the impossible travel time from one place to another; the involvement, if the internet commenters weren't total crackpots, of some kind of secret agency. _The eyes._

_Stop thinking with your ovaries,_ she scolded herself, but it wasn't her ovaries she was thinking with, not if she was being honest. It was her gut.

_All things are more complicated than they appear._

_One last good show._


	4. Chapter 4

Kate got up from the chair and paced, wrapping her arms around herself. "Just for the sake of argument," she mumbled aloud, and lifted her head. What if he'd said those things to her, knowing what was going to happen? Knowing what she'd see? What could that mean, except that what she'd seen didn't tell the whole story? _One last good show._ That meant it wasn't real, right?

Right?

She fetched up against the front windows and parted the blinds with her fingers. In the sliver of horizon framed by the plastic slats, morning dawned. Their neighbors' houses were black rooflines against the bluing sky; the streets were still except for some dedicated jogger, pushing herself out of a sleepy lope, leading with her head as if the world was a door she meant to batter down. Kate felt a quiet clarity come over her.

_None of this involves me. If Frost is a bad guy, then he's in custody. If he's a good guy, then the people who've got him will figure that out. All your poking and looking . . . maybe it satisfies your desire to know, but that's all. This isn't your problem. This isn't even remotely your problem._

Kate sighed, and the weight of her long night fell heavily on her shoulders, now that she was ready to accept it. She let the blinds snap back into place and shuffled across the living room. She turned toward her bedroom and was halfway down the hall when her laptop pinged. _Laptop,_ she thought, and grimaced. _Burrito._

She walked back to the kitchen, intending to dump her plate in the sink and close up her laptop, but the notification noise had come from her email program. She poked it, prepared to delete whatever piece of marketing crap had snuck past her spam filter, and stopped.

Desdemona Brabantio had written back to her.

_Ms. Sullivan, it is so good to hear from a fan of THE LAKE QUEEN! As it happens, that part of the story has an interesting background . . ._

_As you mentioned, I did a brief exchange with Uppsala University in the 1970s and participated in some archeological work then occurring at Gamla Uppsala. While I'm afraid that the lovely cafés of Uppsala made a greater impression on me than the archeological work, one incident did end up inspiring the story of Thomas Greyking's sword Wellspring._

_We were being shown some items in the collection of the university which were not normally on display, including a very plain but very well-made dagger which was a bit of a puzzle to the university: it was clearly forged with a great deal of technical ability (I can't recall the details, but it had something to do with the alloys and the straightness of the edge) but it had been found with other items which came from an era predating the technical ability of the forging by several centuries. I believe the common belief was that there had been a cataloguing error and the dagger had actually come from a different site, but no one could track down where the error had been made, so it had simply been kept off display._

_They allowed us to hold it—while wearing archivist's gloves, of course—and we passed it around with about the reverence you'd expect of college students who'd signed up for the exchange primarily to get out of their own country. We were nearing the end of the tour at that time, and I was a bit distracted (I had met a very nice Swedish boy the previous day—the most lovely behind you've ever seen—and my mind was rather hopeful on the subject of seeing him that evening) so after I had handled it once, I took off my gloves, anticipating the need to return them to the university staff. One of my classmates, not noticing that my gloves were off or that I'd already seen the knife, handed it to me without a word, and quite out of habit, I accepted it._

_I don't know if it was a moment of heatstroke or fantasy or LSD flashback, but as soon as I touched the hilt, I saw a most extraordinary series of images: a king in armor upon a throne too massive to be real, a dozen men and women in the costumes of half a dozen countries standing before him, and surrounding them, a court of extraordinarily beautiful people; six swords, each forged in a different style, but all of them unmistakably of the highest craftsmanship; the face of a woman, stepping forward with her hands out, but nothing of the supplicant in her body—she was demanding something of this king as if_ he _were the one who owed_ her; _then a bright shining light in the middle of the room, and all the people disappearing through, as if they were walking between two worlds._

_I came to on the floor of the Uppsala University anthropological department's basement with the faces of all my classmates looking down at me. After assuring them that I was quite fine—and I was—they helped me up, the anthropologists took their knife back, and we went off into the afternoon to find a few pints to restore me._

_The next day, the program advisor called me into his office for a sit-down. He hadn't been at the anthropology department the previous day, but he'd heard about it, obviously, and he was concerned about me. As for me, I'd ended up drinking absolutely nothing with my classmates the day before, and spent the night having the most extraordinary dreams about the men and women I'd seen when I touched the knife. Like the child I was then, I told him all about it and asked him what he thought. I suppose it was a different time—now, I expect I would have been sent home or at the least ordered to a mental health examination if I told an academic advisor I'd seen visions of an ancient king—because the man, bless him, listened quite intently while I blabbered on, then told me about a bit of local myth._

_It seems that, long ago, the kings of Uppsala had wielded a sword that was said to have been given to them by the gods. There were a number of stories about how exactly the kings had come to have it, but a few of them were quite similar to the story I'd seen: beings from another planet had come to use the Earth as their personal playground, and to stop it, their king had given the people of earth six swords that would kill these beings. The advisor said he expected I'd heard the legend somewhere, and my over-heated mind had visualized it while I passed out._

_By that point, I think I'd realized that saying otherwise would probably have ended with me in hot water, so I kept my mouth shut, even though I'd never heard anything like it before. After that, I spent quite a bit of time asking about local stories about magic swords. I heard a number of variations on the same story, but none of them mentioned the woman with the demand in her eyes—until very near the end of my time in Uppsala._

_I was visiting the countryside with a very nice young man (not the one with the perfect behind, a different one) and we stopped by his granny's house, because she had a truly storybook little place at the end of a dirt lane, with a flower garden and pebbled glass windows and wonderful crooked walls. She served us tea and rose hip soup and chattered away in Swedish. When I asked about the swords—because I had gotten in the habit of asking—she told me, through her grandson, a story much the same as what I'd heard before. When she reached the bit about the swords, though, she said that a woman stepped out from among the people who'd come to petition the king. "Not all of us carry swords," she said. "What of we who wield mattocks, or threshes, or shuttles? Shall you tell your people, 'Fear only warriors, and prey on the rest'? We who are not warriors would defend ourselves, but you give us no weapons." And the king—who was a good king, if not terribly quick on the uptake, according to Granny—spoke to his armorers and his magicians, and they made a seventh blade: a dagger, plain in form but just as deadly as the swords had been. They gave it to the woman, and when the lot of them returned to Earth, she disappeared into the crowds that came to watch them return, and no one could say where she went. They say that she is the true reason the gods stopped visiting Earth to make mischief: because no one knew where she had taken the knife, it could have been anywhere, in the hands of anyone. Anyone might carry the god-killing blade, not just the kings and queens who wielded the swords._

_I loved the story, and so when I took up writing a few years later to occupy myself while I was recovering from a motorcycle racing accident, I made it a central part of THE LAKE QUEEN. Well, a central part in the first draft, that is—over a number of revisions, Thomas Greyking elbowed his way to the front of the story, and by the time I was sending it to editors, the story of the seventh blade seemed unnecessary to them. I always intended to write another book, telling the story of the seventh blade and its wielders in greater detail, but one thing and another happened, I got married, I got divorced, I had house payments to make, and the MARIAN CONSPIRACY stories were selling so well that I simply didn't return to it._

_I hope that answers your question about THE LAKE QUEEN! It's odd, I hadn't really thought about those dreams in years, but just a few days ago, I dreamed them again. Kings and queens and gods from other worlds—wonderful stuff, isn't it? Thank God for LSD._

_Best wishes, and do write again if you have more questions._

_Des_

Kate blinked, rubbed her eyes, then reread the email. When she was done, she sat back in her chair and let her arms dangle for a moment before she had to lift one hand to her mouth so she could bite her knuckle. _Butts, beers, and acid trips_ , she thought. _Jesus Christ, I want to be a writer._

When her giggle fit passed, she leaned toward her computer and read the email for the third time, her smile fading. Six swords and a dagger.

 _Pretend that magic's real for a second_ , a seductive voice whispered at the back of her brain. _Pretend the swords are real. Do you really think that acid flashback just happened to send Brabantio tripping the moment she touched that dagger? She said herself that she hadn't heard the story, that the only person who even knew the version with the knife was a little old woman who lived in the middle of nowhere._

_What if it was magic?_

_What if it was the god-killing knife?_

_What if Frost was telling the truth?_

Kate flung herself away from the computer and paced the living room, her arms folded tight across her stomach. "This is nuts, Katie," she told herself.

_If things were different, the histories would name you hero._

_What things?_ she wanted to demand of Frost. If he was different? If she was different? If she had found out about Brabantio earlier?

"What's nuts?" Kinsley said sleepily, and Kate whirled. Her roommate was yawning in the doorway, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "You're up early, Kate. Couldn't sleep, or—" Kinsley finished stretching and caught sight of the flattened burrito by Kate's whirring computer, then looked back at Kate, her eyes narrowing. She took a step forward, compensating for her lack of glasses. "Did you—you haven't gone to sleep yet, have you? What's going on?"

Kate opened her mouth, then closed it. How did she even begin to explain the thoughts running through her head? Kinsley squinted at her, squinted at her computer, and turned back to her, tilting her head.

"Look. You get a shower. I'll make breakfast. Think about it, tell me after we eat. Deal?"

Kate's stomach growled. "Okay," she said.


	5. Chapter 5

Thor would be fine. The pretty bastard could fly, couldn't he? And they had been high enough that even that lunkwit would have enough time to figure out how to break out of the glass cage.

The stolen SHIELD Quinjet roared away from the helicarrier. Loki squeezed the edges of his seat until the tubular frame dimpled under his fingers and tried to redirect his thoughts to the next phase of the plan, but he kept returning to that moment in the helicarrier, standing by the control panel. _"The humans believe us to be immortal. Shall we test that?"_

He'd meant only to humiliate Thor, to leave him powerless and trapped in the Hulk's prison while Loki walked away. Then the human, Coulson, had interfered, and Thor's rage at the mortal's death had shaken him. For a moment, he'd forgotten that the cage was meant to drop if the glass broke, and he'd seen only his brother wielding that hammer and thought _he's going to come right through that glass and kill me. He's going to kill me this time, over a mortal._

And he'd released the cage.

_He'll get out. He's Thor. He'll survive solely to irritate me._

Loki closed his eyes and made himself assess the rest of the plan. His mind-controlled SHIELD agents had brought him good news from Selvig: the wormhole device was ready and already on the move toward Stark Tower. Within hours, war like these mortals had never seen would come to Earth. He hoped he'd angered Fury's so-called Avengers enough to stop it.

But that was a dangerous thought. Loki opened his eyes and let go of his seat, walked forward to the cockpit to watch over the pilots' shoulders. Of course his mischief on the helicarrier had not been meant to force the squabbling warriors together; he had done his best to set them against each other, to trick them into destroying each other. If the helicarrier had not gone down in flames, well, that was simply bad luck, not specific orders to cripple without killing. His plans were to assemble and activate the wormhole device, then lead an army of Chitauri across the Earth; blooding and enraging the only group of individuals on the planet who might be able to figure out how to destroy that army at its source would have been a grave mistake.

He watched as the glittering city appeared over the water. It was not gold, glorious Asgard; but it had its own idiosyncratic, alien beauty, its contradictory impulses merging into a skyline that was unmistakably human. He wondered how much of it would be in ruins by the evening.

Imagining New York in ruins was unexpectedly unpleasant. _Sentiment_ , he mocked. _You're becoming as soft as Thor._ He gripped the back of the pilot's seat. Thor would never have had the courage to make the decisions he had made, to protect Asgard as _Loki_ had protected Asgard. If Thor had been the one to fall, the one to be found by the Other and his purple-faced keeper, the one offered leadership of an army, Thor would have yodeled about his principles and been killed on the spot, and where would the universe be then? The Chitauri would find some other dupe to steal the Tesseract and invade Earth; without the assembled Avengers, the planet would fall, and it would be only a matter of time before the Chitauri turned their greedy eyes on Asgard.

_Instead, I shall rule as a benevolent god_ , Loki thought, catching himself. _The wormhole will open. The Chitauri will come. The Avengers—if any of them remain—will fall. And I will rule._

Longing clutched him by the throat as he remembered Stuttgart. There had been no resentment in their eyes, no long-seated hatred of Loki the Trickster—only fear. Beautiful, beautiful fear. For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to rule with that fear surrounding him wherever he went, that instant obedience to his every command. Never again the sidelong looks, the jokes, the slights—

And yet.

He looked at the nape of the pilot before him, and thought how easy it would be to crush that neck. In a century—less than a century!—none living would remember his coming, his triumphant conquering of this planet, except as a story. He would forever be a man apart, unmatched, unequalled. Ruling a planet of animals and Chitauri scum.

A gutter king.

He bared his teeth and the pilot in the other chair looked up, fear in his eyes. "Sir—?"

"Fly," Loki commanded, and turned away. The SHIELD soldiers in the back of the Quinjet avoided his eyes. _No better than pack of trained hounds_ , Loki thought in disgust. He had been born to better. He had been born to rule gods.

Carefully, and only for a moment, he allowed himself to think: _And one day I shall._


	6. Chapter 6

Kate came out of her shower feeling more awake, if not more decided. She changed into jeans and a loose white blouse embroidered with flowers, wrestled her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, and left her bedroom.

In the kitchen, Kinsley looked up from the stovetop and pointed at the cabinets. Kate folded her laptop and set it aside, then took down plates and glasses. From the smell coming off the stove, there would be potatoes involved in breakfast. Kate's stomach rumbled.

"I know I said after we eat, but this is going to be another ten minutes, so talk to me," Kinsley said without turning around. Kate turned one of the chairs to face her and sat down, leaning on her knees. She watched the muscles in Kinsley's narrow back move as she stirred with quick, deft movements.

"So this guy came into the library this week."

Kinsley looked over her shoulder when Kate stopped short, unsure how to continue. "And? He gave you a million dollars? Told you he wants to cast you as Wonder Woman? Said he could hook you up with Idris Elba?"

Kate rolled her eyes. "He was looking for information about this old Norse myth about magic swords. Actually, I think he was really looking for the magic swords, and he wanted to find out more about the story so he could find the swords."

Kinsley arched an eyebrow before turning back to her cooking. "So, what, most hipster cosplayer ever? 'Yeah, you probably haven't heard of this magic sword, it's pretty obscure'?"

Kate snorted, then started to giggle. Kinsley chuckled, then turned to look at Kate when she kept laughing, bending at the middle and squeezing her eyes shut.

"Okay, I'm funny, but I'm not that funny," Kinsley said. "Are you sleep-deprived, or are you about to have a nervous breakdown on me?"

Kate gasped and wiped her eyes, getting herself under control. Frost, the hipster cosplayer . . . she bit her lip hard, then inhaled, trying not to start laughing again. Kinsley shot another look at her, and Kate held up a finger, then sighed. "Oh, Jesus. Yeah. I'm sleep-deprived. I was kind of . . . up all night trying to figure out the story, and some other stuff." The urge to laugh disappeared as she remembered the _other stuff_. She cleared her throat. "I think . . . I think he might have been involved in the terrorist thing in Germany."

Kinsley swung the frying pan toward the table. "Incoming hot stuff," she said, and Kate leaned away as Kinsley divided fried sage-and-sea-salt sweet potatoes onto their plates. "You lost me. Terrorist thing?"

Kate blinked as Kinsley returned the frying pan to the stovetop and slid an already-cracked egg from a bowl into the pan. Of course. Kinsley had been sleeping for the last eight hours. _Like a normal person._

"There was, um, this . . . attack in Germany. Guy with a laser cannon thing."

"Like Iron Man?" Kinsley said, perking up. She was a Tony Stark fangirl.

"Not exactly." Kinsley deflated and turned back to her egg. Kate picked up her fork, checked that her roommate's back was turned, and scooped a few sweet potato cubes into her mouth. _Heaven._

"Quit eating the potatoes. So? Why do you think this guy's involved in some random-ass thing in Germany? And why the hell do you care?"

Kate balanced the tines of the fork on the edge of her plate. "He said something to me the last time I saw him. Right before the thing in Germany happened. _Everything is not what it appears_ , or something like that. Like . . . maybe he's not the bad guy that people are making him out to be."

Kinsley turned around and balanced her spoon-hand on her hip. "Hold the phone. You're saying you talked to this guy more than once, and the last time was right before he went off and shot up Deutschland with a laser cannon?" Kate nodded. One of Kinsley's eyebrows rose. "Okay. So." Her mouth pursed and slid sideways. "Did he seem like . . . I dunno, the laser cannon supervillain type?"

The oil in the pan made a popping noise. Kinsley turned to her egg, giving Kate time to think. By the time Kinsley slid a perfect sunny-side up egg onto Kate's plate, she still didn't have an answer. Kinsley paused, studying her face.

"Huh." Her mouth twitched like it was full of goldfish words wriggling to get out, but all she said was, "Eat your egg before it gets cold."

She turned back to the stove and slid a second egg into the sizzling pan. Kate picked up her fork and stared at the golden yolk for a moment before using the edge to cut herself a bite. One of Kinsley's part-time jobs was as a cook in an all-organic, all-natural restaurant. Becoming her roommate was, quite possibly, the best thing that had ever happened to Kate's stomach.

She gave herself over to sixty seconds of undistracted appreciation for sweet potatoes, sea salt, sage, olive oil, and free-range eggs, then reluctantly returned to Kinsley's question. _Did he seem like the supervillain type?_

Kinda, yeah.

Kinsley dropped her egg onto her plate, returned the pan to the stove, sat down, and scooted her chair closer to the table. She wielded her fork like an axe, hacking out a chunk of egg that she shoveled into her mouth with a few cubes of potato.

"The fact that you laughed at 'hipster cosplayer' and not at 'laser cannon wielding supervillain' concerns me," she said through a half-chewed mouthful, then swallowed and met Kate's eyes skeptically. "This dude's the real deal?"

Kate impaled a stack of potato cubes, then said, "Yeah."

Kinsley sighed through her nose and pointed her fork at Kate's laptop. "Show me."

With great reluctance, Kate left her meal and opened her laptop. She clicked through the news links she'd sent herself, but each of them came up dead. Frowning, she searched, but no matter what combination of terms she entered, the news stories she had seen last night weren't appearing.

A tight smile crossed her face. _It's not paranoia if they really are censoring the internet_ , she thought, and turned off her wifi before pulling her thumb drive out of her bag. Kinsley watched as she ate, her expression growing more and more skeptical, until Kate opened her folder of screenshots. She flipped through them for Kinsley, wishing she'd thought to copy the articles too, then sat back and looked at her roommate's face. All traces of humor had left her expression.

"That's fucked up," she said. Kate opened her mouth to object—she didn't even know the context—but her roommate kept talking. "Taking stuff off the internet?" She looked at Kate. "This is like the thing in Monaco all over again."

Kate and Kinsley locked eyes. "SHIELD," Kate said, her brain suddenly making the connection, and Kinsley's eyes narrowed.

"Fucking SHIELD," she agreed.

Kate berated herself for not making the connection earlier, then gave herself a shake. She had been tired, and distracted, and besides, SHIELD was Kinsley's pet, not hers. Her roommate shoveled the last sweet potatoes into her mouth, then stood, and headed to her room. She came back with a handful of folded booklets, still chewing, and dumped them on the table before carrying her plate to the sink. Kate made herself rush through the last bites of potato and egg and handed her plate to Kinsley when she reached for it, then she began spreading the booklets over the table.

The motley collection of black and white 'zines that peered up at her—some in old-school sharpie style, others clearly assembled by someone with publishing software and an anal-retentive need to get their kern on—were the work of a collective of internet activists, Iron Man fans, and privacy advocates. Kinsley picked up copies from a narrow little storefront in New York once or twice a month, and dropped off her own carefully-photocopied and stapled editions just as often. Other big cities had their own groups, and a fair amount of exchange happened between them, facilitated by the most-fanatical 'zinesters. Their purpose was to share information that SHIELD didn't want shared—and would hunt down, fanatically, on the internet.

Kinsley sifted through her well-thumbed 'zines efficiently, searching for something, an intent look on her face. She had gotten into the 'zine scene after bootleg video of Iron Man's fight with Anton Vanko at Monaco disappeared from the internet—completely. Like other Iron Man fans, she had hunted for it all over, and in searching, they'd discovered that other bits of information—like pictures of the battle in Harlem between the Hulk and the Abomination—had gone missing, too. By comparing notes, she and other hero-watchers had gradually figured out that there was a government-backed group with complete and illegal access to personal computers, mobile devices, data clouds, and server farms, and this group was determined to erase the existence of certain information from the internet. Renaming files didn't help; mirroring or editing video would sometimes slow discovery down; using offshore servers was occasionally good for a few hours of lead time; but SHIELD always found the information eventually. The hero-watchers figured out the name of the group, but after that, all legal and illegal efforts to get them to stop stealing information hit brick walls. After all, how do you prove that something was deleted off your personal computer if you can't prove it existed in the first place?

So Kinsley and her compatriots had gone old-school: offline. When they came across something SHIELD-related, they printed it or transferred it to a non-networked computer, then, when they'd accumulated enough tidbits of information, they made a 'zine, copied it, and brought copies to one of the distribution points locally. It was inefficient, it was unreliable, it was slow, and it was nearly impossible for SHIELD to track. Plus, _so_ much cooler than sharing shit on social media.

Kinsley finally found the 'zine she wanted and opened it, then slid it to Kate. Someone with impossibly neat handwriting had written, over a crappy black and white photocopy of a crappy surveillance still, "Two individuals captured on surveillance camera in temporary New Mexico SHIELD facility." One was a mud-covered man in a chair. The other was a tall, elegant man in a suit. The camera had only captured part of suit-guy's face, but that was enough for Kate: it was Frost.

"Tell me what you read," Kinsley said, and picked up a scrap of paper and a pen. Sometimes, additions to the 'zines were like this: verbal summaries of things someone had read or seen that were deleted before they could be preserved. The 'zinesters were careful to label them as such, but the speed of the SHIELD information-destroyers meant that there were usually at least two or three in any given 'zine. Kate closed her eyes and concentrated on remembering as accurately as she could, and Kinsley scratched out notes.

When she was done, she opened her eyes and found Kinsley studying her. "What?" she said.

"You think this guy's hot."

Kate flushed. "That has nothing to with this."

Kinsley raised her eyebrows and pointed her finger at Kate. "Excuse me. You have a thing for villains. Hello, your Catwoman crush?" She paused and folded her arms. "Evidence. He's a bad guy."

Kate rolled her eyes and closed her laptop, then handed her thumb drive to her roommate without being asked. She wasn't totally sure that Kinsley was joking. The other woman palmed the thumb drive possessively, then looked up at Kate.

"Look. I am one hundred percent in favor of fucking over SHIELD as long as I don't get arrested or renditioned or fired. So. Tell me what you want to do about this guy, and I'll tell you if I can help."

Kate let out a long sigh, and a tension she hadn't known she was holding seeped out of her. Kinsley didn't think she was crazy. She took a drink from her glass, then toyed with it. "I don't know what I want to do. That's the problem. I mean, if SHIELD has this guy, then he's not coming back, right? They're like a black hole." Kinsley shrugged. Kate flicked her glass with her nail, then flattened her hands on the table. "Maybe this sword thing is important. He _acted_ like it was important. But I don't know why he was looking for it. I mean . . ." She let her voice trail off as she remembered joking with Frost: _Do you have a god to kill? I do_. Kinsley watched her think, her sharp eyes reading Kate's tiniest changes in expression. When Kate didn't finish her sentence, Kinsley folded her arms on the table.

"Look. You're a librarian. Librarians research, right? That's your superpower. So do some research. Maybe you'll figure it out."

_Research_. The thought jogged Kate's memory, and she flipped open her laptop and opened her email again. Her Frost email still existed, even if the links didn't work, which she figured was a good sign. She had copied the item location data for two books into the bottom of the email; now she opened her browser and rechecked the location, then tapped her fingers lightly against the keys without striking them hard enough to type.

There were two books she wanted to check for versions of the magic-sword myth, volumes that were old and hadn't been printed in large quantities, and they were both in New York City. One was at the public library, and the other was at Columbia. She didn't know what she'd find if she found them, or how it would help her find Frost, or help Frost, or do anything, really, but add to her store of knowledge.

_Librarians research._

She grabbed her bag and found her wallet. She had a little cash, and there was enough in her checking account to cover the train ticket down. She checked her phone. Half a charge, and forty-five minutes until the next Amtrak to New York City.

She looked up at Kinsley, who had recognized the moment her roommate had made a decision and was leaning in, a smile curling the corners of her mouth. "Grab your shoes and your keys," she said. "You're driving me to the Amtrak station."

Kinsley's smile widened into a sharky grin of approval and she shot out of her chair, her bare feet slapping the carpet. Kate followed more slowly, folding her laptop before tucking it under her arm to carry to her room. She flattened herself against the wall as Kinsley cannonballed out of her room, feet still bare. "Where are your shoes?" she asked her roommate's back.

"Don't ask dumb questions," Kinsley shouted from the kitchen. Kate shook her head and continued into her room. Her laptop went back onto her dresser, and she dug out a pair of purple sneakers from their hiding place under the spill of her comforter. She sat on the floor to pull them on and had a moment of doubt. Did she really need to do this today? She'd just pulled her first all-nighter since she graduated a year and a half ago; she didn't have to be at work again until tomorrow, and she could have easily slept all day and gone to the city for the book later in the week. Or, she thought, just requested it through ILL and avoided the hassle and expense of going into the city in the first place.

"Hurry your ass up!" Kinsley yelled. "Jesus Christ, you need me to tie your shoes?"

"Shut it, assbutt," Kate yelled back, and tied her shoes. She sat for a moment, hands on her knees.

Fuck it. Magic swords and hot terrorists. She'd grab a Red Bull in the city.

She lurched up and left her room. Kinsley shoved her bag at her and started thudding down the steps as soon as Kate's hand closed around the strap. It was suspiciously heavy, but she slung it across her body anyway and followed Kinsley down the stairs and out the front door, pausing to test the lock before crossing the lawn to Kinsley's Jetta. She climbed in as her roommate started the engine.

"You're not wearing shoes."

"Like I need shoes to drive, fool." Kinsley spun the wheel and sent them lurching into the street. "I put some stuff in your bag. If you get a chance to stop by ComiKaze—?"

"Sure," Kate said, grabbing the door handle to keep from sliding across the seat.  "I'll probably be back tonight. Otherwise I'll call Ylsa and see if I can crash on her floor—"

"Do not crash on that janky-ass bitch's floor," Kinsley interrupted, rolling her eyes in Kate's direction. "Seriously. Home by midnight."

Kate rolled her eyes back and lifted her hand in surrender, but she didn't mind Kinsley's protectiveness. She hadn't really been looking forward to the prospect of sleeping on her ex's floor, but she was tired enough that she had to mention it. "Fine. Home by midnight, like Cinderella."

Kinsley gave a sharp nod, and they drove the rest of the way to the station without talking. They pulled up at the curb and Kinsley turned on her hazards. "Text me when you're on the train, okay?" she said. Kate nodded and gave her a quick hug, squeezing her roommate's bony shoulders, before she slid out of the car and hurried to the station. She bought a ticket and went straight to the train, where she had just enough time to find a seat and text _I'm on_ to Kinsley before they were moving. _Good hunting,_ Kinsley texted back.

She stowed her phone in her pocket and hauled her bag onto her lap, meaning to check what Kinsley had stuffed in her bag while she was putting on her shoes. Inside, she found the photocopied 'zines she'd expected—along with crackers, an apple, Kate's filled water bottle, and Kinsley's inflatable travel pillow.

She pulled out her phone again to text _thanks_ to Kinsley, then inflated the pillow, wedged herself against the window, and closed her eyes. _Next stop, Penn Station._


	7. Chapter 7

Kate climbed off the train at Penn Station with an emptier bag, a fuller belly, and a sleep-lightened step. She needed the energy once she stepped into the frenetic City crowd: the pedestrians on 33rd Street had places to go and people to see, and she had to hurry to avoid being walked over. She resisted the temptation that always struck her in the city: the urge to look up, up, up, at the blue, blue sky like a river running between concrete banks, and instead, she focused on counting the blocks and keeping herself oriented. It wasn't far to the public library, but despite her current energy, she knew she'd be tired soon, and going the wrong direction for even a few blocks would use up her reserves.

A boom like thunder filled the air. _Great, rain. Just what I need_ , Kate thought, and looked up, but the sky was still clear. Sonic boom? she wondered, then put her head back down as her shoulder was bumped. She concentrated on dodging through the bodies around her: men and women in suits, teenagers in summer dresses, people in their running-errands jeans and shirts. Next to a restaurant that wafted the smell of curry and greasy chicken, a forest of delivery bikes was parked; a block later, the air filled with the perfume of a rainbow of flowers laid out in rows along a shopfront. She passed construction fencing covered in taped-up paper notices for bands playing and mattresses for sale and electronics closeouts, stepped around a parked baggage cart in front of a hotel, and sweated when she had to wait at a crosswalk in the sun.

As she crossed the street, people began coming out of buildings, looking up at the sky. She dodged them at first, then, when they began clumping in twos and threes, she started to slow down.

"Did you see—" "—on TV—" "—hole in the sky—" "—light—" "—Stark Tower—"

Ice wrapped her heart. _This is what it was like in 2001,_ she thought. _The whispers that didn't make sense. The whispers that couldn't make sense. And then—_

Her phone vibrated. She dug it out of her pocket.

"Kate! Are you there? Are you in New York?"

Kinsley's voice was staticky and broken. Kate covered her other ear, backed against the nearest window, and looked up. "I'm here! I'm—" She looked ahead. "I'm right by the library—Kinsley, what's—"

"Get out of there, Kate. Get—soon as you—stay off—"

The call dissolved into static and cut off. Kate checked the screen to see if she had enough signal to text, but there was nothing.

Just then, everyone around her gasped. She looked up and saw things falling out of the sky.

_Oh God_ , she thought. _They're jumping. Oh God, oh God, they're jumping, I didn't even hear_ —

But instead of falling straight down, the specks began to drift sideways and up, wheeling like hawks, and seconds later, they began exploding. The air tasted suddenly like ozone, and distant cracks echoed off the buildings. Watching the sky, Kate let the hand holding her phone fall to her side and walked up Sixth, heading for 42nd Street. _I can get a clear view, there,_ she thought, using her peripheral vision to avoid people standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. _I can see what's going on, I can figure out—_

She reached the corner of Sixth and 42nd and stared at the sky, three blocks away. Gridlocked cabs disgorged passengers who turned their faces upward, eyes wide and mouths open. Flying—things—flashed across 42nd, heading down Park Avenue, impossible blue lights flickering from them. Explosions boomed—one, two, then threefourfive too many to count, shaking the street.

She stood, frozen, watching, as a fighter jet zoomed through the canyons of skyscrapers, firing a machine gun; she heard it shooting, engines roaring, as it disappeared from sight, then reappeared, engines on fire. People around her began running, some screaming, some grimly silent. She knew she should run, should try to get away, but she was transfixed, because she'd finally seen where the dark specks were coming from.

There was a hole in the goddamn sky, right over Grand Central Station. _New terminal?_ She thought for a second, a hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat. Then any urge to laugh died, and she stared, unable to blink.

There was a goddamn dragon coming out of the hole in the sky.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The leviathan was gigantic.

Loki was briefly distracted. In space, with nothing beside it for scale, it had seemed large; now, he watched it smash the tip of a fin through two floors of a skyscraper and thought, Good Gods, I really do have an army.

"Look at this! Look around you! You think this madness will end with your rule?" Thor shouted into his face, holding back the spear with Mjölnir. He looked at his brother, panting and desperate, blond locks streaking his face, and stated the obvious.

"It's too late," he said. "It's too late to stop it."

Thor's face turned hopeful. "No," he said. "We can. Together."

The words were like a knife to the heart. _Together._ Even now, even with the stench of fire and burnt alien flesh filling the air, Thor saw what he wanted to see: a little brother who had made a mistake that he could help clean up, a little brother who only needed a smile and a word of encouragement to do the right thing. Because doing the right thing always worked out for Thor, didn't it? It made him Odin's favorite. It led him to the throne. He didn't understand that the world didn't work like that—that sometimes it took lies and betrayals and manipulation to protect what you loved against monsters that had no interest in the right thing.

_Wake up, Thor_ , he thought, and drove the knife he'd palmed into his brother's side. Thor stumbled back, more out of surprise than pain, and dropped Mjölnir.  

"Sentiment," Loki whispered, and smiled as his brother's face contorted in rage. Thor lunged at him, kicking him into the glass wall before picking him up and slamming him against the walkway. The spear skittered out of his reach. Behind him, the howl of Chitauri chariots grew louder. _Goodbye, Thor_ , he thought, and rolled away, dropping onto a chariot as it flew by. He grasped desperately for the control yoke, then snarled to himself as he wrestled with the controls. Around him, rot-faced Chitauri chittered and howled and blasted everything they saw, and he was hard-pressed not to simply turn the chariot's cannons on them.

_Animals_ , he thought, enraged. _This is what you do to my kingdom!_

But it was not his kingdom—would not be his kingdom, not if Selvig remembered the instructions he'd whispered through the Tesseract and used the spear to shut down the portal. _Remember, you old fool_ , he thought, and used the chariot's weapons to blast a line of empty cabs. Below him, humans screamed and ran like the ants they were.

"Come on, Avengers!" he howled. "Destroy the Chitauri if you can!"

He rose from the streets to the tops of the steel-and-glass canyons, soaring like the eagle he had once been. He kept the Chitauri as close to the portal as he dared, and watched as Stark chased and was chased by the leviathan. _Find the soft spot_ , he commanded, secretly, silently; but in the end, it was the beast—not dead after all—that simply punched the leviathan in the snout. Inelegant, but effective.

"Send the rest," he commanded, and watched as the leviathans poured from the rift in the sky. _The more that die here, the fewer to threaten Asgard_ , he thought, then sent his chariot diving, skimming the wreckage-strewn streets in a reckless effort to drive all thoughts but those of flying out of his head. _I can't let the Chitauri see what I'm doing now,_ he thought, _not now, when I'm so close to winning, when the Avengers are so close to destroying them all for me—_

He flew inches from the undercarriages of flipped cars, reveling in the astonished and terrified faces of the humans he flew past until something familiar tugged at his eye. He was flying too quickly to take a second look, so he hauled the ungainly chariot through a turn and circled the block, forcing it to slow as he searched for the thing that had caught his eye. When he saw it, he snarled.

_You little fool._

The librarian—who should have been far from here, cozily ensconced in her books and her tiny, ignorant world—was facing off with a Chitauri footsoldier. He deduced the moments that had led to this scene in a look: the terrified man sprawled behind the librarian, trapped beneath a broken beam; the dead Chitauri smashed a few feet away, crushed under wreckage; and its compatriot, closing in and snarling, the broken spear in its hands the only reason the two humans hadn't yet been blasted into a splatter of bone and blood. As he closed in, the librarian fumbled with the spear she'd taken off the dead Chitauri and managed to trigger a blast, sending the creature staggering into Loki's path. He grinned.

_Well, if you're going to be so obliging_ , he thought, and sent the chariot accelerating into the Chitauri. The ugly creature gave a surprised squawk before exploding apart at the waist. As a last revenge, though, some bit of armor or bone smashed into the chariot's propulsion unit. The chariot shuddered and let out a hideous whine, and Loki leapt from the control stand as it screeched against the road and skidded into the side of a panel truck. He tucked himself as he landed and somersaulted through a half-dozen revolutions before he slowed enough to plant his feet and stand. For a moment, he simply swayed in the street, grinning like a child. _If Thor could have seen that—_

His smile faded.

Running—human—feet approached him from behind, and he spun, a knife ready to throw in his hand, but it was only the librarian, the damned librarian, still holding the spear. Her eyes were bright with hope at seeing him, the same hope that had shone in Thor's eyes, and he wanted to grab them both by the shoulders and shake them.

"Frost!" she said, the spear dropping to point at the ground. Anger rose in him at her blind trust. _Letting your guard down as easily as my idiot brother, without his armor or strength._ His knuckles whitened on his knife for a moment—it would serve her right to learn the same lesson he'd taught his brother—but at the last moment, it was the other, empty hand that he reached for her, catching her by the throat. Her eyes opened comically wide.

"My name is Loki," he snarled. "And you are a foolish creature."

The spear clanged to the pavement as the librarian scratched at his hand. He wasn't squeezing hard enough to stop her breathing, but he felt the temptation, just for a moment, the temptation of holding a perfect loaf of bread and wondering how much pressure exactly would be required to send his fingers ripping through the crust to meet in the middle. She kicked his knee, and he blinked. She was glaring at him fiercely. _Waste of time,_ he thought, and let go, then looked up. Chariots passed by in flashes overhead. He'd have to get higher and jump again, or else try to command one to land, which would be a tricky business given the cratered, crash-covered state of the pavement around him . . .

The spear thudded weakly against his ribs. He looked at the librarian in astonishment, then twitched his head sideways and reached up to catch the spear before she could take a second stab at his face. She tugged uselessly at the spear for a moment, like a puppy with a stick, before letting go, her hands making impotent fists.

"You asshole," she said. "I came here to help you, and you—you really are the bad guy, aren't you?" She tried kicking him in the shin, and he sidestepped, then had to lean back as she snaked a fist at his jaw. _Little librarian isn't all books and fines_ , he thought, amused, before her words registered.

"To help me?" he said. She glared, breathing heavily, and now that he'd seen her take a swing at him, he could recognize the pattern of her eye movements as she tried to figure out how to attack him next. He laughed so hard that he dropped the spear, not sure what was funnier—the idea of her helping him or the idea of her fighting him.

The laughter angered her. She bent, and before he understood what she was doing, she had picked up a fist-sized chunk of concrete and winged it at him. It bounced off the armor on his shoulder. "Smartass son of a bitch," she snapped, then picked up another rock and whipped it at him before he could react. This one clanged off his helmet, setting his ears ringing. "Fucking fight me, you alien piece of shit—"

He caught her arm before she could lob any more missiles at him, grimacing at the ringing in his ears. She shouted at him and tried to strike him with her free hand, so he caught that arm too. Tears came to her eyes as she spat her useless epithets— _tears of rage and fear both_ , he thought, and marveled at the chance events that had brought him to this point, standing in the street holding the paws of this little animal while a battle that would decide the fate of worlds raged overhead.

A battle he belonged in, yet had no stomach for. He watched the woman struggle in his grip and felt a great weariness at the thought of wading back into the fray, struggling to keep the Chitauri in line without alerting them—or their terrifying master—that he had no intention of letting them make Earth their next conquest. His jaw tightened. All his work to protect Asgard, to stop the Chitauri, and if he succeeded today, the best he could hope for was to become a fugitive from his own brother, an exile from both the worlds he'd saved—

The woman cried in pain, and he realized he'd tightened his grip on her wrists. He let go, and she fell to her knees before him, clutching her wrists, her head bent. The pose pleased him little. The woman looked up at him, hate in her eyes.

"You'll never rule this world," she snarled. "We'll—"

He grabbed a fistful of her curls. "You pitiful creature," he said. "This world? This world of ants and insects? I would sooner rule a barren rock inhabited by one Asgardian dog than this squalid hive of drones and drudges." She bared her teeth at him, her neck stretched long and fragile as he forced her head back. "I don't want your world," he said. "I never did. This was for Asgard, you sniveling worm." He gave her hair a yank, making her wince, before letting go and turning away. "Humanity," he spat. "My brother's infatuation with your race baffles me."

He looked up at the sky, searching for a chariot, disgusted with himself for wasting time on a human, angry with himself for risking the exposure of his plan. Even now, he could feel ripples in the Chitauri—surprise, confusion, anger—and he forced his thoughts into their old forms, trying to keep control.

"Then why?" The librarian's shout was ragged with anger and despair. "Why come to me with your _bullshit_ stories about magic swords and god-killing knives and if things were different, you'd be a hero horseshit? Why, Loki? Why lie to this _sniveling worm_?"

_Magic swords and god-killing knives_. He caught his breath. What she'd said earlier came back to him in a rush: _I came here to help you_.

He hadn't told her about the knife.

He spun. "What did you find?" he demanded.

She staggered onto one knee, then stood, crouching from exhaustion or wariness or both. "I found your goddamn knife," she said, and the words sent hope rushing through him like mead drunk too quickly. He stepped forward, hand open.

"Give it to me."

She laughed, short and bitter. "I wish," she said. "I'd stick it in your lying heart. It's across the sea."

Hope-drunkenness crashed into sober reality, and the sting of losing the beautiful moment he'd imagined—taking the knife and using it to kill Thanos, then carrying it back to Asgard and using it to kill Odin and Thor and every other Asgardian who refused to kneel to him—pricked him into rage. He fisted a hand in the librarian's shirt and lifted her off the ground.

"You incompetent cow," he spat into her face. "A single day quicker, and you could have averted this! All of this!" He dropped her to the ground and watched her fall backward, landing on her hands. He spread his arms. "You could have prevented it, Kate. Everyone who dies today is your fault." He let his arms drop and took a step forward, looming over her. "You might be the single greatest murderess in the history of humanity. Congratulations."

"Fuck you," she snarled, and he laughed.

"The great comeback of humanity," he said, his anger and his bitterness still boiling in his chest. "A fine way to end the pathetic, ignominious story of your race—"

The side of the spear came out of nowhere, smashing into his helmet hard enough to knock it off his head. The librarian came at him a second time and, warned, he ducked the spear and gave her a push that increased her momentum and sent her crashing to her knees. She flung the spear at him, childishly, not even trying to throw it point first, and bent, hands on her thighs, panting.

He stood over her. It was time to break her neck or to leave, but he couldn't make himself do either. The pain of coming so close—so close to his dream of ruling Asgard—burned like poison in his breast.

_Live_ , he thought. _Live and share my pain_.

He reached down, and for the crime of thinking herself his equal—thinking for even a _second_ that she could help Loki of Asgard—he touched her temple and gave her the curse of knowledge. The hell of falling from the rainbow bridge; the horror of Thanos, waiting in the dark; the vast Chitauri armies and their ravenous plans; and how close—how maddeningly close—they had come to saving both their worlds.

She jerked away from his touch as if she'd been electrified, scrabbling backwards on all fours with the blackness of what he'd seen in her eyes. He watched with grim satisfaction as she gasped, gaze fixed, mouth open, then turned away. He picked up his helmet and dusted it off before settling it on his head.

"Wait."

Her voice was shaky and small. He looked at her sidelong. His knowledge weighed down her shoulders like plate armor, but she fought to lift her head, to meet his eyes.

"You need the knife to kill Thanos."

"Among others."

One hand fluttered weakly, as if to wave the comment away. "I don't give a shit about your daddy issues. Thanos. He'll come here? He'll come for Earth?"

Loki blinked, momentarily nonplussed by the mortal's disregard. But if he cared nothing for Earth, then was it so strange to imagine that a mortal could dismiss Asgard? "Yes," he said. "He'll destroy everything. It's . . . in his nature."

She met his eyes unexpectedly. "You can kill him if you have the knife?" He narrowed his eyes at her repetition. She pushed herself to her feet shakily and straightened. "Then we have to get it."

"Assuming we don't both die today, my brother will come for me," Loki drawled. "And he won't be in a mood to hunt for relics."

"Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars," the mortal muttered. The words made no sense, but he could see her little mind working. It irritated him.

"Even if you find the knife, Thor will take me to Asgard, where I am known as a liar," he said. "And since I just stabbed him, I rather doubt even my gullible brother will be inclined to travel all the way back to Earth on my say-so."

The mortal was undaunted. She looked at him with gleaming eyes. "Stockholm is an eight-hour flight," she said. "I looked it up on the train. Uppsala's maybe an hour away from Stockholm. If we could get a flight right away, go straight to Uppsala, find the knife in the archives . . ." She looked away from him, thinking, then back. "One day. Twenty-four hours. That's all we'd need. Less than twenty-four hours, if we could get a direct flight and nothing went wrong." Her eyes blazed. "How do we delay your brother for twenty-four hours?"

"We don't," he snapped, taking a step toward her. "When this battle ends, Thor will come looking for me, and he won't stop until he finds me. My brother may be gullible, but he's not stupid. He found me within moments of arriving on this planet." Coldness lanced through his chest. "I can't escape him."

_Unless._

He looked down at the mortal, as unlike him in form as a human could be: black-skinned to his whiteness, female to his maleness. She was nearly as tall as he was—unusual for a human—though pathetically weak. _I could stand that form for a day or two_ , he thought. Not that she'd agree. She was a fool, but she wasn't that foolish.

The words came anyway, as they always did, knowledge and instinct and long-honed skill carrying them to his lips.

"What would you sacrifice to save this planet, Kate? To save humanity?" He paused, letting her meet his eyes. "You were ready to die for that man in the street. What would you do for your friends? For your family?"

"Spit it out, Loki," she said, her eyes hardening, and he couldn't help smiling.

"You said all we would need is one day," he said softly. "Would you give me that, Kate? One day?"

Her lips flattened, then eased. His heart fluttered. She was going to say yes.

"Tell me what I have to do."

He gave himself a second to settle, then explained. The doubt in her eyes deepened; but when he finished, she swallowed, and nodded. He cupped her face as delicately as a new lover and closed his eyes for a moment, readying his magic. When he opened them, she was watching him, her face as resolute and solemn as a soldier's. "Ah, Kate," he whispered. "Perhaps you're the hero after all."

He brought his lips to hers. She resisted, then softened, her lips parting to take him in at the same time as he felt her hands come to rest, tentative, on his armored shoulders. He tasted blood and apples and salt, and then the magic swept through him, and nothing was the same, then or ever again.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

_She stood on a shining bridge and in the distance, a city gleamed, a city of gold and light, and joy swelled in her heart at the beauty of it, because she was home, the only place she ever wanted to be, the only place she ever loved, and she would protect it with her dying breath, because she was Loki of Asgard—_

Kate let go of Loki and gasped. Her head—her head was filled with centuries of memories, faces, names, battles, feasts, all exploding into existence in her brain, carrying away the life she thought she knew on a tide of smells and sounds and sights, and she grasped desperately for an anchor, one moment, one memory—

The taste of the apple on the train this morning. The crunch as her teeth broke the skin. The juices filling her mouth. _That apple._ The sway of the train underneath her. The rhythmic hum of the music coming from the earphones of the girl sitting next to her. The smell of someone's peanut butter toast. The warm nap of the upholstered seats.

_That moment. That moment was hers._

She realized Loki was steadying her and she straightened, relearning her balance as he watched her. He looked calm, unruffled; she supposed her own pitiful two and a half decades of memories had required little effort to assimilate. She flexed her fingers slowly and looked down at her hands.

It was like looking at a photo negative of herself. She made fists of her hands and felt the muscles of her forearms strain against her vambraces. She knew the weight of the metal and the bite of its edge against the back of her hand as well as she knew the fit of her favorite pair of Converse, and it was the first time she'd ever worn it. When she breathed, she felt the leather and metal slide and give across her chest, and she heard the sound of leather creaking and metal rasping once before the sounds disappeared, so familiar that her ears automatically filtered them from her thoughts.

"Are you ready?" Loki asked in her voice, and Kate started.

"Yes," she said, and almost turned her head to look for the source of Loki's voice. Loki smiled with Kate's face, and Kate was momentarily fascinated by the strange-familiar sight of her own face, unmirrored, close enough to touch.

"You should hurry," Loki said. "The Chitauri are still under my control, but the Avengers will come looking for you soon. If they find us together . . ."

"The Avengers?" Kate repeated, confused, until Loki's memories rushed in to fill the gap: Tony Stark, threatening her and joking; throwing him out the window, only to see him reappear in his armor; Stark mentioning a name before blasting her with his palm cannons.

Kate put a hand to her chest, sure—despite what she'd seen only minutes before, with her own eyes—that she'd feel blast-scarred armor, or at the very least, a freaking _bruise_. She looked down. Nothing. Okay, maybe she was a little bruised, but she should have had broken ribs, at least.

She could also see the tops of her feet without her boobs getting in the way. That was weird.

"Kate?" Loki said, and the uncanniness of hearing her name in her own voice made her shiver again.

"Right," she muttered. "Go run around and shoot some stuff. Try not to get killed. Make sure Selvig remembers how to close the wormhole. Tell Thor I love him."

Loki's anger was even more unsettling on her face. She took a step back, and tried to turn it into a casual retreat by pointing at him. "No scratches or dings, okay? And bring it back with a full tank." She stumbled over a bit of concrete and tried to recover smoothly. Loki's glare turned into a confused look, then simply a grim one.

"Twenty-four hours," Loki said. Somehow he made her mild brown eyes burn with intensity. " _Don't let them find out who you really are._ "

"Yeah, no problem," Kate muttered. She looked up as a flight of Chitauri chariots passed overhead. _Fuck_ , they were going fast. She spotted an overturned car that was resting on its hood and its windshield, turning its undercarriage into a ramp. Loki's memories and Loki's muscles said she could sprint toward it and leap from the end onto one of the chariots as they passed overhead; her instincts went _hell to the no_. "Shit," she whispered, and looked over her shoulder. Loki had turned to follow a flight of chariots; he turned to her and nodded. "Shit shit shit SHIT _SHIT_ ," she chanted as she ran, shouting the last word as she leapt from the end of the car and landed behind a Chitauri soldier. She grabbed its shoulder and shoved it off the end of the chariot, then took over the controls.

The damn thing steered like a go-kart on ice _in three dimensions_. Kate narrowly missed smashing into the buildings lining one side of the street, then the other, then yanked the chariot up a second before it would have plowed into the back of a bus. She managed level flight for  half-dozen blocks and whooped in victory.

_Okay,_ she thought. _Shoot shit and don't get killed. Got it._

She hauled back on the control yoke and let out an inadvertent screech as the chariot rocketed vertically. She wrestled it back into level flight a few hundred feet in the air and nearly took out a bank of windows covering someone's penthouse office. _If I look down, I'm going to puke_ , she thought, and fixed her eyes on the nearest chariot. It was weird-looking—or, she should say, weirder-looking—and after a second, she realized that was because there was a woman in black crouched on the Chitauri pilot's shoulders. _Natasha Romanov,_ Loki's memories supplied, along with a streak of wariness and grudging respect. Kate didn't need to dig further than Loki's emotions to agree. _Fucking boss,_ she thought as Romanov sent her chariot swinging through a tight turn. _Although Loki would probably be shooting at her, right? Right._

She fumbled across the yoke until she found the laser cannon's trigger—ugh, it felt like a bony knuckle under loose skin—and gave it a few experimental taps. Blue beams of light shot from the front of the chariot and sent glass and facings exploding where they contacted buildings; Kate poked the trigger a few times more, trying to figure out how the cannon aimed—if it aimed at all—until she saw Romanov turn and look over her shoulder.

_Shit, be Loki!_ Kate thought, and pasted on her most villainous smirk. Romanov went back to flying, then looked off, away from her flight pattern. Kate looked where Romanov had looked and—using Loki's instincts—reached up just in time to grab the arrow someone had aimed at her head. She grinned.

_Hell yeah, who's the badass villain_ —

The arrow exploded.

Kate flew off the chariot and crashed onto a rooftop, losing her helmet. She stood and had a moment to think, incredulously, _Stark Tower? Really? Right back here?_ before the Hulk appeared out of nowhere to punch her through a glass window. She slammed against an interior wall hard enough to send concrete showering down around her as the great green thing landed in front of her, shaking the whole building.

_The fuck did I do to you?_ Kate thought, enraged. She stood and felt Loki's anger rising to her lips. "Enough!" she shouted. "You are all of you beneath me! I am a god, you dull creature, and I will not be bullied—"

Something grabbed her ankle and hauled her feet from beneath her, then all she felt was _impact impact impact_ as a building—buildings—were dropped on her. She landed on her back in a crater of concrete floor.

"Shit," she meant to say, but when she tried to inhale the breath she needed to speak, the only sound she made was a whimper.

_Maybe this wasn't such a great idea._


	10. Chapter 10

Loki ran five blocks before Kate's weak body forced him to slow down. He walked along the sidewalk, panting and checking the sky every few minutes to make sure he wasn't in the path of any joyriding Chitauri. Their chittering, insectile voices had been dampened when he transferred his consciousness into Kate's body, but he could still hear them talking to each other, gradually realizing that the humans were a more stubborn foe than they'd planned for.

 _Disgusting creatures,_ Loki thought, and grimaced as Kate's bag banged into his side for the sixteenth time. He wrapped his hand around the strap, tempted to throw it off, but Kate's memories stopped him: something called a _charger_ was inside, along with some bits of paper that she thought were important.

Suddenly the Chitauri voices in Loki's took on a panicked edge. He turned and looked up at the wormhole and saw a fleck of reddish gold disappear into its blue-ringed darkness. _Stark,_ he thought, and watched, listening as thousands of Chitauri cried out in panic . . . then were silent.

"Ma'am, please keep moving," a soldier said, waving Loki in the direction he'd been going. He watched one of the leviathans beginning to sink. _Hindenberg,_ Kate's mind supplied, along with the image of a flaming silver balloon. He ignored the foreign memory and smiled slowly as he glimpsed fire blossoming within the wormhole. _Oh, you clever monkeys,_ he thought, and watched in delight as the ring of the wormhole began to close. Seconds before it disappeared, a golden spark dropped through. Stark again? It was impossible to tell at this distance; but Loki gave himself a shake and tore his eyes from the immensely relieving sight of the empty sky. He had to put distance between himself and this city; while Kate might well be able to lead the Avengers on a merry chase, he couldn't count on it. Nor could he count on the stubborn little librarian to be able to keep up the pretense of his identity; though she had access to his memories, just as he had access to hers, he doubted she'd be able to fool Thor for very long. His brother was a sentimental fool, but he wasn't blind, or deaf.

"Ma'am!" the soldier repeated, irritated, and this time, Loki obeyed. He joined the flow of people weaving through stopped cars and overturned carts, dodging craters in the road and detouring around spills of bricks. Acrid smoke drifted through the air, and in the crowds, here and there someone covered in ash or wearing a sleeve of blood stumbled along with even less coordination than usual. Kate's thoughts nattered along under his, supplying a constant stream of similar images which, he realized after a bit, were taken from Midgardian entertainments _._ Apparently Midgardians enjoyed viewing various simulated scenarioes involving destruction of all or bits of this planet. _A hundred different Ragnaroks_ , he thought, and shook his head. Setting aside Kate's incomprehensible taste in stories, Loki rooted through her thoughts for the information he needed: how to get the knife.

Step one, it seemed, was getting off this island. Loki looked around him at the abandoned vehicles on the streets and felt a flash of relief when Kate's memories suggested another way: _the water._

He shortened the strap of Kate's bag, shifted its weight, and began walking briskly in the direction of the river. Other people joined him; some were clearly peasants, while others were just as clearly from the higher ranks. None of them gave him a second look. He focused on moving as quickly as possible while reviewing Kate's rudimentary plans.

She thought they could cross the river, then purchase passage across the ocean by airplane. It would require money and documents—Loki assumed a bit of magical deception would do for the latter, if not the former—and it would take time. Once across the sea, a train would take him to the town in which the knife was hidden. _Simple enough to pluck it from the hands of the mortals that hold it,_ Loki thought, _as they seem to have no idea of its value._

Someone bumped into his side hard enough to knock Kate's glasses askew. Loki glared at the offender before adjusting the glasses, frowning. Her vision was adequate up close, but at a distance, everything turned into a blur. _Unacceptable,_ Loki thought, irritated. He stepped into the lee of a postbox and closed his eyes. A moment of concentration identified the imperfection, and he worked a quick spell to reshape them. His eyes stung and watered, then, as he blinked, felt normal. He removed the glasses and checked his vision. He could easily read signs two blocks away—perfect.

He tucked the glasses into Kate's bag and continued walking. As he drew further away from the battle around Stark Tower, the damage lessened, until the only un-ordinariness—in Kate's thoughts—were the abandoned cars in the street and the many people flowing across the sidewalks. The concrete paths were growing crowded with sweating, fear-stinking humans; Loki kept himself as apart as he could, but soon, he had no option but to let his shoulders brush those of the humans around him.

 _Disgusting creatures_ , he thought. _No wonder they live for barely a century—who could tolerate this sort of company for any longer?_

As he continued toward the water, though, he saw things that Kate, with her knowledge of New York and of humanity, recognized as unusual: shopkeepers stepping out of their demesnes to offer bottles of water to the weary and ashen; crowds parting for a bicycle cab laden with the bloody; women who smelled of paint and chemicals stepping into the crowd to offer shoes to women who had kicked off heels in their hurry to escape; the uniformed staff of a hotel tending to a man with a bloody head who sat on the sidewalk, his already-ragged clothes indicating that he was far below the class of their usual clients. When someone stumbled, within a step another person was there to slip a shoulder beneath an arm, to take a hand, to bend a concerned head; he passed two teenage girls, their steps as hobbled as if they had been tied, holding hands with an old man who crept at the pace of a snail. _Sentiment_ , Loki sneered, but Kate's memories summoned other scenes: of humans lifting each other out of wrecked buildings, of humans splashing into frozen rivers toward stranded passengers, of humans braving bullets to hold closed doors against unseen menaces. _A race of fools ruled by the suicidal instinct to save others_ , he thought. _Yes,_ Kate's memories said. _Yes, exactly._

It took Loki nearly two hours to walk to the riverfront—twice, Kate's memories indicated, what it should have taken. Once there, he joined thick crowds barely contained by the shouts of men and women who gestured with flapping arms, trying to make order of chaos. He missed the inches of height he'd lost in transferring into Kate's body, but on his tip-toes, he could just see the piers, where a motley assortment of boats were drawing up and taking on passengers. He saw every size of pleasure craft, fishing boat, tug—and each one left the piers packed with people, seated on decks and clinging to railings. "Where did they all come from?" he murmured to himself.

"They saw the smoke," a man next to him said. Not a man—a boy, wearing a garish orange shirt with _Delivery_ written on it in red thread. "They saw the smoke and they came. Like on nine-eleven. They got my sister out, then."

Loki turned to the boy to ask him what he meant, but his bright orange shirt slipped away as the crowd thickened, and Loki found himself caught, pressed even closer amid the humans. He gritted his teeth and shuffled forward with the rest of the sheep until he reached the piers and it was his turn to descend a ladder onto a tiny white boat, to grip a silver rail and accept the orange life-vest that was handed to him. The pilot of the boat was a woman whose face was wrinkled and brown with weather, her eyes a fierce squint, and she steered them into the river with steady hands and a back that was soldier-straight. Loki looked up at her from his precarious seat and thought, oddly, that he was in safe hands, now; that he had been accepted into this woman's protection and no harm would come to him—no harm _could_ come to him, not with this woman to defend him.

He turned this odd thought over and over in his head for the brief minutes it took them to cross the water. When they reached the other side of the river and she stood at the railing, steadying her passengers as they climbed the ladders of the pier, he lingered to be the last off and offered his hand in the Midgardian tradition. "Thank you," he said. She took his hand and shook it, once, looking him in the eye with a level gaze that reminded him of Heimdall: unblinking, unflinching. "Good luck," she said, and let go with an unmistakable air of dismissal. A smile curled his lips as he reached for the rungs and climbed. _From your lips to the ears of the gods,_ he thought, and on the pier's steady surface, he turned his face to the east for a moment. _I come,_ he thought, then began to make his way inland.

 _And miles to go before I sleep_ , Kate's memories whispered, inexplicably. _Miles to go before I sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: Loki's experiences in this chapter are based on an event that actually happened on September 11, 2001: the Manhattan Boatlift. It's a case of reality being MUCH more amazing than fiction--if you're curious, there's a short (12-minute) English-language video about it on [YouTube](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDOrzF7B2Kg). (CW: brief language, news footage of the tower collapse, and scenes of destruction.) Fireboat engineer Jessica DuLong also has a chapter about her experiences during the boatlift in her memoir, [MY RIVER CHRONICLES: REDISCOVERING AMERICA ON THE HUDSON](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3054592.Jessica_DuLong). The YouTube video WILL make you cry, so have tissues ready.


	11. Chapter 11

_Note to fucking self: never make deals with trickster gods._

Kate sat in the dark, sweating through her armor, her eyes drawing phantoms in the absence of light. Tony Stark's broom closet didn't let so much as a sliver of light through the jamb; she suspected, from the chemical smell that lingered, that it was actually where he had kept a bunch of super dangerous sciencey chemicals, which made sense, in a way, because she was a dangerous thing now, wasn't she? She imagined Kinsley's gleeful demands for details. _What was he like? Was he in the suit? Was it awesome?_ She held tightly to the thought of Kinsley, because every time she closed her eyes, nightmares swam up from Loki's memories.

Monsters from stories he'd been told as a child. Monsters he'd fought as a child, and as a young man, and as a young prince, creatures with twisted horns where their eyes should have been and things whose shrieks and roars reeked with the rot-smell of the flesh caught between their jagged teeth. Thanos, with his broad smile and cruel eyes, the light of burning suns reflected in their black irises, made an appearance in her imagination, whispering in her ear, "You have been tricked by the trickster, Kate Sullivan, but this will not spare you from my vengeance."

But Thanos wasn't the worst.

The worst was the ice.

Black turned white, became just as blinding, until she began to see shapes in the white, shadows that could have been mountains or monsters or towers. As they drew near to her or she to them, the shadows turned blue and took on the shapes of men—men grown to the size of giants, arms unnaturally long, beards spiked with ice. Their eyes burned with unnatural fire as they closed in, more and more eyes winking into existence in a ring around her. They towered over her, closing off any escape, and from a thousand winter-wind voices came the words _Welcome home, brother_ —

_No,_ she whispered to herself, wishing she had enough light to see her hands, to make a lie of Loki's memories. _Not a monster. Not a gods-damned monster._ She dragged her hands over her face, feeling the angular planes over and over again, reassuring herself that no trace of the scars and whorls that defined the faces of the giants existed on her own skin. _I am not a frost giant. I am of Asgard, I am Loki Odinson, I am_ —

She threaded her fingers into her hair, into her strange, straight, down-soft hair, and gritted her teeth. _Kate. Kate Sullivan. I am Kate Sullivan. Not Loki._

She remembered the first time she stepped into the ocean, the first time she felt like a speck before something greater than herself. She remembered the night she turned eighteen and spent sunset to sunup with her friends, driving with the windows rolled down and the heater turned up and the music so loud that the speakers cracked and squealed on the choruses. She remembered the first cherry she ever ate, the pop of the skin under her teeth, the sweetness of the flesh, the cautious maneuvering of lips and teeth to free the fruit from its stone, the childish pleasure of spitting the pit across the lawn. She marshalled every memory she had in which she was truly herself, only herself, and laid them like bricks between herself and Loki's fear of the dark.

_Kate Sullivan. Not Loki. Kate._

But Loki had lived a thousand years before Kate was even born, and his memories and fears and hates pressed in on her like a dark flood, seeping slow and implacable around every frail barrier she built. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her steel-sheathed arms around her leather-covered shins and she breathed in char and blood and the faint, unmistakeable scent of _otherness_ and she fought with all her soul against the flood.

Her first day of school. The first time she balanced on roller skates at the rink where Kelly Grundy's parents had taken them for his ninth birthday. The Halloween costume she wore in first grade, a felt lion's mane ringing her face, her orange pelt puffed up by the sweatpants her mother had insisted she wear underneath. Kissing Quinn Manning in the last seat of the bus on the field trip to the nature center in sixth grade.

_Kate. Kate. Kate. I am Kate._

\---

Light.

For a moment, she was as blind in it as she had been in the dark. She raised her arm in defense and squinted and saw a dark shape looming over her. _Thanos,_ her gut said, and she stiffened as it bent toward her and—

snapped a metal cuff around her wrist.

Thor. Not Thanos. Thor.

_About fucking time,_ she thought suddenly, angrily. She didn't know how long she'd been stuck in her makeshift prison, but it felt too long. _But maybe not long enough,_ she thought suddenly, remembering Loki, remembering the reason she was in the stupid closet in the first place. She tried to find a window behind Thor to gauge the light.

Thor grabbed her other wrist and fastened a second metal cuff around it. _Cuff_ —with its Earth-association with handcuffs—was the wrong word, though. The metal restraints were the width of three fingers and the thickness of one, inscribed with runes of grounding and containment; with the chains that connected them, she doubted they were less than five pounds.

"Jewelry, brother? How sweet," Kate said. It was a lame attempt at Loki's usual vicious humor, and Thor's sidelong look at her confirmed it. She swallowed. She hadn't seen a window. She didn't know how much time she'd given Loki. She had to keep playing her part. "Did you bring these all the way from Asgard, just for me? Was that your first thought, brother, when it occurred to you that I might have survived the fall?"

Thor's cornflower blues darkened. _Okay._ Now she was getting the hang of being Loki. She licked her lips, digging through Loki's thoughts for another taunt, but before she could, Thor reached to his side and came back at her with a metallic thing that looked like a retainer from Hell. Kate jerked her head back as Thor reached for her, but there was nowhere for her to go, and he quickly fitted it over her mouth, securing the strap behind her head. A tingle passed from her jaw through her tongue; when she tried to speak, she couldn't even hum. _Magic,_ she thought, half excited and half terrified and half pissed off. _He's using fucking magic on me because he doesn't want to hear me talk. Even if I wanted to explain, I couldn't._ Heat rose from her belly. _He never listens. Never._ Memories flashed before her eyes in support—the time that Hogun and Fandral had baited him, the time that Sif had called him a runt, the time Idunn had misplaced her basket and everyone had blamed him—

_No, no, no,_ she thought. _Not me. Not me. That's Loki. I'm Kate. That didn't happen to me. It didn't._ Even though she could remember the sting of shame from kneeling to Sif before the entire court for cutting off her hair, even though she could remember the disappointment in Frigga's eyes over Idunn's basket, even though she could remember the ache in her arms from carrying buckets of manure by hand from Hogun and Fandral's chambers after she'd magicked it there—

_Not Loki,_ she insisted. _Not Loki!_

"Brother?" Thor asked. "Are you well?"

He looked worried—genuinely worried, although she wondered how exactly he thought she'd answer him. _Like Lassie?_ she thought sarcastically, and, realizing how un-Loki a thought that was, seized on it with both hands. _Bark bark! Thanos is down the well! Let me cock my head and flick my ears and thump my tail at you._

She actually did tilt her head at him before Thor realized his mistake. Worry faded back into injured anger, as if she'd deliberately chosen not to answer him. He stood and dragged her to her feet. She stumbled, her thighs cramping as they straightened after their long stillness, and she fell against Thor's side. His hand tightened on her arm—supporting her, pulling her close—and for a second Loki's thoughts buried her own simple relief at not falling on her face: Loki's fury at showing weakness in front of his brother, Loki's disgust at his brother's instinct to protect him instead of defending himself against the tricks Loki might have attempted, and—most plaintive, most aching, most deeply buried of Loki's thoughts—the piercing pain of his longing to shelter under his big brother's strong arm, to let his brother take his weight, to be little Loki again, safe and loved and protected.

Kate elbowed Thor as she straightened, aiming for the point where she'd stabbed him—only hours ago? Yesterday? _I am not your little brother,_ Kate thought, watching Thor flinch and straighten from the corner of her eye, and for a second, she felt only the pain of bereavement as she watched Thor's brotherly worry disappear from his eyes, replaced by the cold detachment of his warrior gaze. Only after he started to lead her out of the room—filled with scientific equipment that Kate barely recognized—did Kate wonder who that thought had belonged to.

_Loki better hurry up and find that damn knife,_ Kate thought, her limping gait smoothing as circulation returned to her legs. _Or he's going to find he has a new brother._

\---

Loki was immensely grateful to find his magic still worked when he reached the port of aircraft in Newark, nearly a full day after changing bodies with Kate. He had been reasonably certain that it would—it was largely a discipline of the mind with no special connection to the body, after all—but after sifting through Kate's plans for finding the knife, it had become clear to him that he would not go far without it. While her credit card would advance her permission to take an available seat on an airplane to Sweden, this travel also apparently required official documents which she did not have. _Petty fiefdoms,_ Loki thought irritably. _This manner of foolishness would be unnecessary if I ruled._

But he did not rule humanity, and he would not. He'd never meant to, he told himself as he convinced a ticket agent to give him a first-class seat. He deserved that modicum of comfort after a night spent sleeping amid unwashed humanity in the gymnasium of a school for very young humans; once he'd crossed the river, he'd discovered that the public transit systems that Kate had planned to use to reach the port were shut down, as was the port itself, and he had been forced to use the rude shelter along with a number of other hapless refugees. He had not slept well, troubled by the fear that Kate would inadvertently reveal her true identity before he could reach the knife. She was determined, but she was human, and weak; he doubted that she would be able to evade his brother long.

Fortunately, the previous day's closing was not extended into this day, and in the disorder of the port—which Kate's memories indicated was unusual for this place, but not unexpected—he found it relatively simple to sidestep measures that would have stopped Kate entirely. When he was questioned about his lack of bags, he said simply that they were in New York, and many significant and sympathetic nods ensued; and before the "security checkpoint," he withdrew one of the folded booklets he'd found in Kate's bag and turned it into the "passport" that the security guard desired. Once within the port's defenses, he found himself largely free to roam and a number of hours yet to wait before his aircraft departed. He passed the time by presenting Kate's credit card to various merchants in exchange for a number of small comforts which her body demanded most annoyingly: water, a greasy sandwich, a clean—if ugly—shirt. With these items consumed—or, in the case of the shirt, traded for his current sweaty attire—he found the waiting area for the vessel that would take him across the ocean and sat in one of the unoccupied chairs.

As he did, a series of tweets and chirps began to come from Kate's bag. He opened it and found the source: the device Kate's memories called a _cell phone._ He activated it cautiously and let Kate's memories of its use guide him through a number of brief messages. Someone named Kinsley was profanely concerned about Kate's well-being; he didn't bother digging through her memories to find out if Kinsley was male or female, and dismissed the messages. He sought out news of Kate from the stories about the assault on New York City and thumbed through wildly inaccurate guesses at the source, number, and nature of the Chitauri as well as presumably-more-accurate reports on the damage that the Chitauri had done to the city. The dead were numerous; the wounded, more so; and the missing, greatest of all. Property damage was estimated in units that meant little to him, but were evidently great. The majority of the authors stumbled over each other in their eagerness to praise the Avengers, producing one insipid anecdote after another about their heroic deeds. Loki's lip curled.

There was little said about him. "We are investigating a connection to the incident in Stuttgart," some political toady had prated, then gone on to lie himself hoarse about his government's ability to respond to the Chitauri. Loki scanned the rest of the article, and scowled. Perhaps there had been few witnesses to his actions in New York, but he had announced himself to the crowd before the museum; surely one of the little sheep had retained his name. He searched the news again, this time for—Stuttgart, yes, Stuttgart—but virtually every result his searches returned repeated the same information: a listing of the names of the dead and wounded, the barest timeline of events, and the conclusion that "the suspect was taken into custody by an international task force."

The words chimed with something in Kate's memories. He let her direct his hands to her bag, where he retrieved a paper booklet. On its cheaply printed pages, and the pages of its fellows, he found the answers to his seeming erasure from the news: he had been _deliberately_ removed from human accounts of the last few days.

Paper crackled under his fingers. He stopped himself just short of tearing apart the flimsy pages. _You would erase me from history, would you, Fury? So that your sheep might slumber without worry, unaware how near the wolf stalks? Or perhaps so that you yourself can preserve the illusion that you are not all merely insects to be crushed by the first giant to wander by—_

He clenched his teeth and smoothed the papers against his lap, then stowed them back in Kate's bag, forcing himself to lean back in his chair without revealing his anger. _If humanity wills itself to blindness, so be it._ _I lose nothing if my name will continue unrecognized._

Around him, mortals stirred, lifting their faces. He ignored the movement at first, until the low baaing of the masses rose in volume and took on an edge of excitement. They whispered to each other, their eyes on the display screens that hung from the ceiling; when he finally looked to see what it was that had them so atwitter, he thought, for a moment, that it was some incomprehensible human caprice to do with empty parkland. Then he saw his brother; and his brother's companions.

Loki's heart skipped a beat. "Oh, dear," he whispered.


	12. Chapter 12

Kate's heart pounded so hard that she was sure Thor heard it, although he refused to look at her—not when they left the lab, nor on the long elevator journey to the garage, nor during the brief van ride that took them out from under the building and along debris-strewn streets. When she realized they were driving in the direction of Central Park, she wondered if they were headed to the open space so that a helicopter or one of SHIELD's weird-looking jet things could land, but when she climbed out of the van, blinking at the bright sunlight, there were no vehicles in sight. Well, other than the varied vehicles that the Avengers, in their version of off-duty clothes, had used to arrive at the park: a sleek-looking convertible, a motorcycle, and a matte-black sedan with the SHIELD emblem on it.

The Avengers without their armor and weapons were not, she thought, appreciably less intimidating if you had been on the wrong end of their wrath. She braced herself as Thor turned away, hating the chains on her wrists and the muzzle on her mouth. _You're a prisoner_ , she reminded herself. _And they're not in full battle rattle. They're not going to hurt you. Right?_

She looked toward Thor, the Loki part of her instantly resenting her need to reassure herself that he wasn't abandoning her. He had joined Selvig and Banner as they transferred a blue glowing cube— _the Tesseract_ —from a metal case to a glass-and-brass canister that looked like an oversized pneumatic tube. _What, are we going to zip the thing off to a cosmic bank teller somewhere?_ Kate thought, trying to lighten her mood. _Not the Tesseract_ , Loki's memories whispered, recognizing the shape of the canister. _You and Thor._

She had forgotten about her heart. It had not forgotten about her. It rattled her ribs like a tiger clawing at its cage. _Asgard_ , Loki's memories whispered, the sibilant sharp with an exile's longing and hate. _Where I was once a prince, once a king; where I am now a traitor to the realm._

_Where the Loki who wears your weak mortal body as a disguise cannot venture._

Oh, fuck.

She tried to look around without turning her head or rolling her eyes in panic. The Avengers had circled her. At the edge of the park, she saw SHIELD agents in black suits trying to shoo away a news crew. Thor was a dozen feet away, saying his goodbyes to Selvig.

_Can't run._ She tried to open her mouth, to make a noise, any noise; the metal didn't give. She clenched her fists. _If she had just gone ahead and learned sign language like she'd been meaning to . . ._ She could wave her hands and try to grab Thor, but odds were, he'd sock her in the stomach, throw her over his shoulder, and haul her back without wondering if she was not, in fact, an extremely gullible human librarian rather than his tricky brother.

Thor took the Tesseract from Selvig. The container had handles on either end; he held the one, and supported the weight of the container on his forearm as he offered her the other. She met his gaze. He stared back at her.

Oh, fuck it. She'd always wanted to travel more, hadn't she?

She reached down, and took the handle.

_Mistake_ , Loki whispered in her ear as reality dissolved around her.

\---

Kate and Thor disappeared in a blue glow. Loki stared until the camera was jostled away and the image returned to the whey-faced man wearing false hair who had previously been the focus of the screen, then turned his face away, unseeing.

Thor hadn't recognized that it wasn't him.

His own brother had seen a superficial likeness of Loki, and accepted it as the truth.

His hands felt strange. He looked down, and saw them shaking. He forced them together and clenched them into stillness.

The muzzle. The muzzle Kate had worn. That was the only possible explanation. Thor had silenced her—him—and never given Kate a chance to betray herself.

Rage roiled his belly. His words had always been the one weapon that could wound Thor, the one weapon he had that kept his brother in check, and Thor had taken it away. More than taking away his knives and his spear, more than putting his wrists in Asgardian manacles to take away his magic, muzzling him—silencing him—was how Thor rendered him powerless.

Or would have, if it had been Loki that Thor put in manacles.

Anger rose thick and hot until he thought he would choke on it, and then some whispering thought—some Kate-like thought, he imagined—stopped it. _He finally sees you as you are,_ she whispered. _More powerful than he is. More dangerous than he is. He can't risk hearing you._

His knuckles popped from the pressure of his interleaved fingers. _I am not there, and finally he sees me,_ Loki thought, and he wanted to vomit and to laugh and to lay waste to every drooling, stinking human for miles so that he could snarl his anguish in private.

_You smiling bastard_ , he thought. _Blinder than one-eyed Odin. What will you do when you take off that muzzle and find a mortal girl instead of your brother?_

Loki's breath caught. _Would_ Thor take off the muzzle? Loki hadn't dwelled particularly long or hard on his likely reception in Asgard. Suppose Odin decreed that the muzzle be kept on forever as punishment. Even if they took it off—would they hear Kate's protests for the truth? Or would they think it another of his tricks, an imaginative if not particularly likely attempt at deception?

_Would_ Thor come looking for him?

Loki stared at his hands—at Kate's hands. This body was mortal, but he knew enough magic to make it last for centuries. Weak, but he could strengthen it; female, but he'd been female before. And if he could retrieve the knife . . . they would have to send an army to retrieve him.

If they came looking for him.

They would, they had to; Frigga would notice he was other than himself, even if Thor and Odin did not. They would come looking. He could lead them a merry chase if he chose; he had studied the secret pathways of the World Tree, could keep them searching all the nine realms and beyond. Kate could beg her innocence—another victim of the trickster Loki—and no doubt would find a sympathetic reception, despite wearing his face.

He touched his mouth with his hand, the familiar/unfamiliar shape of Kate's lips flattening under his fingers. Asgard was beautiful; Kate could live there for centuries, puttering happily in the royal library. He would be giving her the gift of time if he did not return; her life on Earth was nothing special, her connections to family and friends forgettable.

She would have the gift of time, and he would have freedom. Freedom from being Loki the Wicked, Loki the Traitor, Loki the abandoned runt of a frost giant.

All he had to do was find the knife and leave the planet before Thor came looking for him.

All he had to do was disappear.


	13. Chapter 13

Kate landed in Asgard and promptly fell on her ass.

The last time she'd felt like this was when she accidentally took four times the recommended dose of cough syrup. She had been eight. Her mother had been forced to hold her down to keep her from getting up and wandering into walls, all while muttering (according to her mother) "where do I go? Where do I goooooooooo?" in the most plaintive eight-year-old voice imaginable.

Thor looked down at her, alarmed, and hastily hauled her to her feet. She swayed for a moment, not sure if she was going to vomit or fall back over, then decided she'd just stand there. Yep. Good challenge, standing. She could focus on that.

People showed up. Shiny people. She blinked hard, decided that she _wasn't_ going to vomit—which was a good thing, considering the muzzle—and tried to figure out where the fuck she was. _A little-used part of the keep_ , Loki's memories whispered, even before she registered the stone walls and the deeply-shadowed doorways through which dudes in armor were pouring, their eyes as grim as Wal-Mart employees facing off with a pack of Black Friday shoppers. They fanned out, encircling her and Thor, and she felt a moment of thankfulness, from herself and Loki's memories both, that Thor had pulled her to her feet before these— _royal guards,_ Loki supplied—saw her flat on her ass.

"Welcome back, your highness," one of the guards said, and started to kneel.

Thor had set down Mjölnir and rested the end of the Tesseract's carrier on the ground in order to pull Kate up; now he waved off the guard's obeisance.  "Tell my father I am returned with much Asgard thought lost," he said.

Kate gritted her teeth. _Lost._ Like a dropped mitten or a misplaced set of keys? She shot a glare at Thor.

"Your father posted us here to wait for your return," the guard said. His eyes shifted to her, then back. "He requests your presence immediately, and has assigned us to . . . take charge of anything brought from Midgard."

Thor hefted the Tesseract's container. "This belongs in my father's vaults. I will thank you to return it to its proper place. Carefully," he added as two guards stepped forward. They had a canvas sling ready that they carried between them, and quickly disappeared into the castle. Thor picked up Mjölnir and hung it from his belt, then placed his hand on her elbow. The guard opened his mouth to say something, but Thor ignored him, sweeping past with long strides. Kate concentrated on matching him without falling over; as the effects of their strange translation through space wore off ( _why had it affected her and not Thor? Because she was a human mind hitchhiking in a borrowed body?_ Kate and Loki both worried at the implications like terriers with an evil sock) she grew steadier on her feet, but more distracted. _That stonework motif lines the walls near the kitchens. There_ — _Thor and Loki played there once, as children exploring the castle, a game of hide and seek that Thor lost._

Kate tried to see the passageways they walked with her own eyes, to note how the doorways were higher than usual, the stonework more laser-precise and unworn than she would have expected in a castle, but Loki's thoughts, Loki's memories overlaid everything. He was a polymath, an innately curious man who'd had millenia to not only accumulate memories of his own experiences but to read and study across dozens of disciplines; and so Kate found herself fighting the insight that she would, under other circumstances, have coveted: thoughts on the construction of the corridor, the reasoning and meaning in a certain repeated decorative motif, the acoustic qualities of their footsteps against the floors, the weird science-magic mix that explained how the corridors that led off without windows were lit. It poured through her head like an opened dam, and she struggled at first to sort through it all for useful information, then to block it from conscious thought.

_Dammit, Loki,_ she thought, _if I'd known that "everything" would be all this, I wouldn't have asked it of you._

She had demanded—back in New York, back when Loki had first proposed this insane plan—that if they were going to swap brains and pretend to be each other, then neither of them could hold back. Everything—good, bad, and mad—had to be shared, and when they switched back, there could be no secrets betwen them, no hidden faux pas to blow up in either of their faces when they returned to their own lives. It was a way, Kate had hoped, of keeping Loki honest—he couldn't misbehave in her body, then hand it back with the memory of his bad behavior erased, its consequences waiting like a land mine.

But living with Loki's memories was proving to be significantly more difficult than Kate had expected.

The stonework changed—from small, rectangular blocks to larger square ones. _The new castle,_ Loki's memories helpfully identified, before Kate drowned Loki's voice in a chorus of _na na na excuse me my body now thanks bye._ She wrestled free of his architectural insights in time to see that they were walking down a corridor and through the side entrance of an enormous room. It glowed, golden, lit indirectly somehow; pillars supported a huge, vaulted roof, under which a massive throne dominated the space from atop a stepped dais. There were more royal guards present—although Loki's memories intruded long enough to note that they were fewer than usual—and a shiver of attentiveness went through them as they noticed him. _Her,_ Kate corrected her own thoughts, then grimaced mentally. _Okay, I'm him. But not really._

Her mental games gave her a few seconds of breathing space before hatred hit her like a ten-foot wave.

Asgardian thief, lying king, _false father_ —

Thor's ungentle hand forced her to her knees. He bowed his head beside her in a gesture she refused to imitate. _Let him force me to kneel. I will not bow my head._ Instead, she glared at Odin, who looked down on his sons—his _son_ —without any sign of emotion.

"Father," Thor said. "I am returned." He looked up, and Kate didn't need to break her glare to know that he was undoubtedly giving Odin hopeful eyes, longing for his approval like a hound dropping a hare at its master's feet. "As is the Tesseract." Flick of a glance in Kate's direction. "And . . . another."

_Not exactly,_ Kate thought, and blinked. _Crap._

She nearly shook her head to try to clear it of the fog of Loki-hate that filled it, stopping herself at the beginning of the motion. She'd let Loki's memories take her over completely: everything she'd just felt, everything she'd just thought—Loki. She shuddered and made herself take a deep breath.

_Okay._ This was enough to make her lose her mind if it kept up. She might have hero fantasies, but she didn't have sacrifice ones. As soon as they took the muzzle off, she was going to tell them what she and Loki had done. It had been almost twenty-four hours, she figured, if you took into account the intergalactic vomit comet ride, so she'd done her part—she'd gotten Loki the time she'd promised him. If he hadn't gotten to the knife yet—well, tough shit.

"You've done well, my son," Odin said. "But I fear I must ask more of you before the day ends." He turned one cold eye on Kate. _Right, game time,_ she thought. "Take the prisoner to the dungeons. I will deal with him when I have finished speaking to my son. Leave his restraints."

_Say what?_ Kate stiffened as guards closed in on her and looked at Thor, but though his expression was unhappy, he made no move to stop them, only stood. The guards lifted her by her elbows. _Take the knife from the left one's belt, plunge it in his belly, elbow the right one in the throat_ —

_Shut up, Loki,_ Kate snarled, and tried to plant her feet. The guards lifted her off them easily, and after carrying her for a few steps, she relented and began to walk. Instinct told her to turn around and look at Odin and Thor, but Loki insisted against it _. Show them weakness and they will tear you apart, little one._

_He said he'd deal with me after he talked to Thor. That can't be too long, can it?_ she thought as the guards led her out of the throne room. A wide, columned open-air walk led to a gorgeous view of strange buildings and skies and a shimmering hint of blue water, but before Kate could gawk, the guards turned into a broad stairwell that had been cleverly constructed so that it was nearly unnoticeable for those who traveled between the open air and the throne room. _Out of sight, out of mind,_ Loki hissed, and Kate wished he was here, in physical form, so she could kick him in the shins for the shiver of fear those words sent through her.

_A couple hours. A day, max. More time for Loki to look for his stupid knife. Odin said "dungeon," not "torture chamber;" the worst thing that'll happen to me is getting bored for a while. Eventually, someone will take this stupid muzzle off and I'll tell them what happened and they'll get pissed and go get Loki._

The stairs went down, and down, and down; after the first pair of landings, they began to pass closed doors at each landing. First, they were ornately carved wood with lattices at eye-height; then plainer wood with metal hardware. The door the guards finally brought Kate to was metal, and worked in patterns that Loki's eye recognized as sigils of containment. _This would be a very difficult door to magic through,_ he observed, completely serious for the first time. _Or to knock down._

Kate swallowed as one of the guards knocked, and the door swung open. It was a good four inches thick, and it moved slow and smooth, like heavy machinery. The hallway it opened onto was wider than the landing; six people could have walked side-by-side without bumping shoulders. It was weirdly lit: the ceiling was dark, the light mostly coming from a glow along the walls. As she and the guards stepped inside, she realized the glow wasn't from light fixtures, but from glass-fronted rooms: white cells that contained a series of freaky-ass monsters, each more shudder-inducing than the next. There was a thing with stag's horns and a fur ruff and legs that bent wrong; a stone-skinned giant, its head nearly brushing the top of its cell; a snake with a man's face, and also arms—maybe arms? She looked away before it could take up permanent residence in her nightmares.

_Monsters,_ she thought. _Here be monsters._

At the end—in the middle of a block of empty cells—the guards stopped and waited until the glass wall on one of them seemed to fade out of existence. Before she could finish gaping, they gave her a shove, and when she caught her balance and turned around, the glass was back in place. She walked up to it and toed it cautiously with her boot, but it didn't spark at her. She gave it a harder kick, and it just clunked.

_Cool,_ she thought, then caught herself. A prison cell—no matter how sparkly and nifty it seemed—was still a prison cell. _Or whatever you call a container for monsters,_ she thought, recalling her fellow inmates, and sat promptly on Loki's attempt to gnash his teeth. _Yeah, you're a frost giant and a monster, now shut up, I need to think._

Miraculously, he did. Or his memories did. It was the latter, really; it was just easier to think of the Loki part of her brain as _him,_ a person that she could order around, instead of her own unruly mind.

Except—she was the one squatting in Loki's brain, wasn't she? It was his body, his nervous system and ganglions and brain stuff; she was just the extra ghost in the machine, the guest DJ, the substitute consciousness. For evidence, all she needed was to remember jumping up into the Chitauri chariot in New York—she couldn't have done that; only Loki, with Loki's body and reflexes, could.

The guards on the other side of the glass left. She turned her back to the transparent wall and looked at the cell, trying to distract herself from the dangerous train of thought she'd begun, but there was little to help her in this room: a plain shelf, person-length, extruded from the wall; a metal grate with darkness beneath suggested it was a drain in the middle of the floor. _So, what, this is a holding cell for constipated monsters?_ Kate thought, irritated, but didn't laugh.

_She was a ghost in Loki's head_. She spread her hands before her, pale and spider-fingered. Her real hands were smaller, her fingers shorter, her skin _alive_ , dammit, not corpse-colored. But she remembered these hands, too—she remembered holding the reins on a great gray horse, remembered climbing stone cliffs, remembered writing notes to herself with a silver pen whose ink flowed thick and glossy from a nib as sharp as a sword point.

_Don't even think it,_ she warned herself. _Not for one fucking second. You're real. You're Kate. Besides, if Loki was going to split himself a new personality, why would he be a Midgardian librarian, huh? He doesn't know enough about Midgard to know the kinds of things I know, to have the memories I have._

But Loki had been to Midgard—he'd snuck off a few times, bent on mischief, she knew that from her— _his_ —memories. He had observed humans and their behavior, had read about them in the royal library, and he'd had time, on this last visit, to get to Albany and back between plotting world domination. He could have met someone like her, the real Kate, and made her up based on his impressions and his personality and his need to be someone else, to escape responsibility for the people he'd killed and the lives he'd ruined—

_I'm not him. I'm Kate. I was born in Albany, New York, and I grew up there, and I went to school there, and I have a mother and a father and a roommate and a boss and an apartment and a shitty car and bad taste in music and I'm good at flipping pancakes and fucking Loki probably doesn't even know what pancakes are_ —

The suited agents at SHIELD's lab. The white-coated scientists. The people—who knew how many?—buried when the wormhole brought the whole lab down on their heads. The man in Stuttgart. The police officers in the car. The overconfident agent on the helicarrier.

New York.

Kate dug her fingers into the sides of her head. _That wasn't me. That was Loki. I'm Kate, god damn it. Kate. Sullivan. It's not my fault. It's not._

She pressed her fists against her skull, and when she screamed, the silence fell on her like thunder.


	14. Chapter 14

After reporting on his actions on Midgard, Thor listened with half a mind as Odin explained the purpose of his mission to Alfheim, his thoughts ranging from the far stars to the dungeons buried deep beneath his feet.

"The Alfar have not faced this foe before, but they report themselves well-equipped to repulse them. Your presence is unnecessary from a military standpoint, but from a diplomatic one, indispensable; we must show them Asgard remains strong, and remembers its allies."

"And without the Bifrost? How shall I reach Alfheim?" Thor asked.

"Dofri, king of the Alfar, is possessed of a way not unlike the Bifrost. Fridur, his daughter, who brought us word of Alfheim's siege this past evening, knows the operation of this way, and is prepared to take you and the companions you shall choose when you are ready." Odin paused, and Thor looked up from his inattentive stare at the map. "She is a fine warrior."

Odin was many things, but not a subtle matchmaker. Thor hid his smile as he returned his gaze to the map. "My heart is spoken for, father. Do you advise a large force, or will Sif and the Warriors Three be sufficient?"

Odin let out a slight, annoyed huff. "Your usual companions are force enough. More, and the Alfar will be offended by the suggestion that they need our help."

"And we do not wish to offend the Alfar," Thor murmured, remembering the last time he had visited the homeworld of the bright elves. It had taken some very fast talking by Loki to keep them from being mobbed by the friends of a tavern-keeper who hadn't expected Volstagg to empty his cellars in a single night; Thor had been laughing the whole time, secure in the thought that he could throw the Alfar tavern-keeper's friends down the street if Loki's quick talking didn't deflect their anger. Thor straightened and looked to the window to hide the guilt on his face. He had been young, still convinced that Mjölnir solved all problems; doubtless his laughter had done little to help Loki negotiate the peace. He watched a raven catch an updraft and soar up and away, over the castle walls. A year ago, it would have been Thor and Loki and Sif and the Warriors Three on this mission, without question; but again, a year ago, the Bifrost would have been whole, a diplomatic mission unnecessary.

_Loki, your anger has reached farther than you could ever have imagined._

A goblet clinked against the table by Thor's hand. "You did well, Thor," Odin said. "The Tesseract retrieved, Midgard preserved. I am proud of you."

Odin held a goblet identical to the one on the table, amber mead glowing through the glass. Thor ignored the drink poured for him. "And what of Loki?" he asked, meeting Odin's eye. "What becomes of him?"

The warmth left Odin's eye, and the many-thousand-years-king of Asgard looked back at him. "He will punished for his crimes on Asgard and Midgard both."

"He is ill, father," Thor said, facing Odin. "His mind is diseased, poisoned by jealousy and anger; and I fear that in his time away he fell into evil company. He—" _is not like himself,_ Thor wanted to say, but he stopped his tongue and said instead, "—he wrestles with madness. And I fear it is the stronger combatant."

"Loki will answer for his actions, whether they were done in madness or in sanity," Odin said, his knuckles whitening. "Those who died at the hands of the frost giants he brought into the very heart of this realm deserve no less. Likewise do the mortals killed on Midgard."

Thor clenched his teeth against his instinctive defense of his brother. No matter how strongly he felt that there was more to Loki's actions, Odin was right. Loki would have to be punished. The thought turned his stomach. He looked at the map of Alfheim, barely seeing its forests and valleys.

"You love Loki still. Were his crimes against you alone, this compassion would suit you well; but mad or not, he brought Jotunheim and Midgard both to the brink of destruction," Odin said, his voice low, if not soft. "A king punishes not for himself, but for his subjects. This is the burden of kingship; it lends my hand a deadly weight."

"But not for Loki," Thor said immediately. Odin started to speak and Thor turned on him, his heart racing. " _Not_ for Loki," he insisted, staring into Odin's eye. All sympathy fled Odin's face; but before he could open his mouth, Thor spoke, the words flying out before he could think them over too heavily. "If you order death for one son, you lose both."

Odin's breath stopped before his lips, and for a moment, there was a killing fury in his eyes. "You command me, your king?"

Thor didn't flinch. "No. I warn." He swallowed, his nerves tingling at the anger that seemed to make Odin swell. "As a son who loves his father, and his brother: do not take both from me." He lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. "Punish him, father, but do not punish me, too."

Odin was silent. Thor wondered if he'd pressed his father too far.

"I have already promised your mother that Loki's life would be spared," he said finally. Odin's goblet clinked as it settled to the table. Thor looked up as Odin walked to the window, but stayed kneeling. Odin's blue eye reflected the clouds. "The pair of you seem determined to love him so thoroughly that all his enemies' hate shall be counterbalanced."

"Only the pair of us, father?" Thor said. Odin didn't move. When the cold stone began to bite his knee, Thor rose. "I will see him before I go."

Odin continued to stand at the window. His white hair glowed in the light, untouched by gray. _How long has his hair been so white?_ Thor wondered, and felt the urge to place his hand on his father's armored shoulder, to look on his seamed face while it remained shadowed by rule.

Instead, he bowed his head and left his father's chambers. Odin was not given to displays of affection, he told himself; that did not mean he was without love.

Frigga's rooms were opposite Odin's, but he passed her doorway; she was at work on the far side of Asgard, and it would be hours yet before she returned. Instead, he began the long descent through the levels of the castle.

Every step downward reminded him of the wound Loki's knife had left in his side. _Sentiment_ , Loki had hissed before he stabbed him, and the word tortured Thor. Was it sentimental to love his brother, to _call_ him brother, when Loki had tried to kill him three times over? Was it sentimental to see the little brother he'd loved and protected for so long in the man who had tried to destroy Jotunheim out of misplaced hate, who had left a trail of destruction in his jealous quest to take a throne on Midgard?

 _A king punishes not for himself, but for his subjects._ Thor was not a king yet, but he would be. Were he king, could he order Loki's imprisonment? His execution?

 _Gods forbid it_ , he thought, and took the coward's path in his mind, refusing to imagine Loki doing something so horrible that even Thor would accept his death as the only judgment. Odin might be able to consider Loki's execution as potential punishment, but Thor would not.

The stairs ended, and Thor crossed beneath his father's throne room to reach the stairs that would take him to the dungeons. He didn't realize he was frowning until a servant's smile on seeing him disappeared into an alarmed scurry past him.

 _Sentiment_. Loki had mocked him with the word; Odin had as much as reprimanded him for it. Pretend, then, that Loki's actions on Midgard had nothing to do with emotion, nothing to do with jealousy—for Thor knew his brother was capable of mastering his emotions when he chose—and ask: why? Why try to conquer Midgard, a fool's quest even without the opposition of the Avengers? The mortals might be short-lived, but they were capable of fierce defense when they chose. And, following on that point: even if he succeeded in conquering Midgard, what joy then? Loki had never been fond of the mortals; he'd laughed at them, called them superstitious idiots, cattle. Thor had a hard time imagining his brother being anything but bored after a few centuries—no, try _years_ —of ruling Midgard.

He reached the deepest level of the dungeons and rapped at the metal door, then waited. Thor had called his brother's actions madness to the Avengers and his father, but in his heart of hearts, he couldn't believe it. Loki always had a reason for what he did, no matter how strange, no matter how long it took to understand; this madness would make sense, if only he could force his brother to explain himself.

The door to the dungeons opened. The guard behind it saw Thor and his face opened in relief. "Your highness—" he said, and would have said more, but Thor only nodded at him and strode through the door. It was rude, he knew, but he needed to see his brother, now. The guard said something to Thor's back which Thor didn't hear, too focused on finding Loki. He strode quickly along the corridor, ignoring the hisses and growls of the creatures contained to either side. Loki would be easy to pick out; his little brother was far smaller than most of these creatures.

In the end, though, it was not his brother's small size that allowed Thor to find him. Surrounded by empty cells, he stared into his brother's prison.

"Oh, Loki," he said under his breath. "What madness is this?"

His brother rose from the bench of his cell and stepped forward when he saw Thor on the other side of the glass. On the wall behind him, in smeared red slashes, were four words: I AM NOT LOKI.

_BANG!_

Thor started. Loki stood opposite him, his poison-green eyes fixed on him over the silver muzzle, one manacled and bloody hand pressed against the glass. Thor could see his chest moving as if he was breathing heavily. Blood trickled from a wound that crossed Loki's palm.

 _No_ , Thor wanted to cry. _No, no, no, Loki, not this, not madness. Come back to me, little brother. Come back._

Loki curled his bloody hand into a fist and slammed it against the glass. The muscles in his long throat corded as he screamed words that were stopped before they left his mouth.

 _No,_ Thor thought as he stepped back, as he turned away, as he walked down the corridor blind to the roaring monsters that lined his path and deaf to all but the sound of his brother's fists against the glass. _No, Loki, please, Gods, no. No. No._


	15. Chapter 15

Kate leaned her forehead on the glass and closed her eyes. _He's going to get the guards_ , she told herself. _He's going to get the guards and he's going to let me out and he's going to take off this fucking gag and he's going to listen and he's going to go get Loki. It'll take a minute. That's all._

She kept her eyes closed, willing to let herself fall forward when the glass disappeared. _Screw dignity_ , she thought, and fought to keep her hands from trembling. Her left palm stung. It had taken some doing to find a sharp edge on the armor left to her, but she'd found one, finally. _Dignity's out the window once you start writing in your own blood._

Time passed. Blood slid down her arm, under her armor, and dried into itchiness. Her palm pulsed with every heartbeat. Thor didn't come back. _Maybe he's talking to Odin_ , she thought. _Maybe he's gone straight to Earth to look for Loki._

_He's not coming back_.

_Shut up, Loki._

_He thinks you're—we're—insane._

_Shut up, Loki._

_You're going to be locked in here forever._

She pounded her fist against the glass. _Shut the fuck up, Loki._

_No, you shut up._ _Oh, wait, you already have._

She could almost see that thin-lipped smile, hear that low, insinuating voice. She straightened and turned her back to the glass, bringing her bloody fist to her chest, then began to pace: to the wall, to the glass, and back. _Maybe I should write more_ , she thought, _try to explain everything_. She opened her hand to look at her torn palm, shuddered, and closed it again. The first quick rush of endorphins that had flowed through her when she broke her skin had dulled the pain of using her hand as a magic marker, but they were long gone now. Now there was just the pain and the lingering suspicion that she could have written her message much smaller and had the same effect on Thor.

_That effect being: nothing_ , she thought, and followed her blood-trail back to the bench. She sat and wrapped her unwounded hand around her fist and pressed both against her armored chest. In the dark corridor, nothing moved.

_Odin said he'd speak to me after he spoke to Thor. He spoke to Thor. He'll come for me. I have to believe that._

She closed her eyes and tried to bring up a memory from Earth—something from childhood, something from _last week_ for god's sake—but the throb of her hand paled every detail she tried to recall. She smelled blood with every breath she inhaled. _Come on, what was the last thing you ate? You can remember that, right?_

The apple. The apple on the train.

She leaned back against the wall and concentrated. It had been a Golden Delicious—not her favorite variety, not tart enough—but sweet, not too mushy. It had bruised in her bag, but that hadn't kept her from biting big mouthfuls from it. The juices had smeared her mouth, turned her hands sticky and sweet; she had licked her fingers when she thought her seatmates weren't watching, then wiped them clean with a tissue. The crunch and scrape of her teeth sinking into its flesh. The crushed pulp in her mouth. The weight—lessening with each bite—in her hand as she turned it between her fingers, until she'd bitten down to the stubborn core.

My _apple. Not Loki's._

_I have apples aplenty,_ Loki whispered, and she squeezed her eyes tighter.

_Fuck off._

He subsided, a smile on his face. She shuddered and tried to focus on the apple, but he'd screwed up her concentration. She opened her eyes slowly to the glare of the room. White walls, white ceiling, white floor; it was the opposite of what she'd imagined when she heard the word _dungeon_. _Maybe that's the point,_ she thought. _Maybe everything that comes down here is so used to darkness that the light hurts._ She squinted. It was like being on display. She hated it.

_Maybe I'll paint all the walls red. Mess with their color scheme._

She clenched her teeth as soon as the thought popped into her head. _Fuck you, Loki_ , she thought.

_Not my idea,_ he said. She pictured him lounging on the bench, looking at his nails. _That one was all yours_.

She hunched over and stared at her clenched hands. _Liar_ , she thought without force, and snarled silently at his laugh.

_You're a shitty cellmate._

_That's unfortunate,_ he said, and didn't have to explain why. She lunged to her feet and started to pace again.

_If I'm just a fragment of your consciousness, why do I hate your guts, huh? Answer me that, Loki._

One inky eyebrow rose over his green eyes. _You're my conscience_ , he said, and raised his hands to make air quotes. _My "good" side._ He paused. _That is the correct gesture?_

She flipped him the bird. He smiled and settled flat on his back.

_I know that one._

She started to pace again.

_You realize you actually made that gesture. To an empty room._

_Shut up._

_Thor thinks you're mad._

_I'm going to be if I have to keep listening to you,_ Kate thought, and glared at Loki. He had tucked his arms behind his head, exposing the biggest gaps in his armor. If she had her knives, she would—

Your _knives?_ Loki said, and grinned. _There we go, "Kate." Baby steps. We'll get you reintegrated just in time to be punished by Odin._

"Fuck you, Loki!" she shouted. "I'm real! I'm fucking real and you're a memory and when I get my body back I'm going to kick your pasty ass from Newark to Albany, you lying sack of dogshit."

Loki tilted his head, looking past her. _I believe you've attracted an audience, "Kate." I wonder what they think you're shouting?_

She spun on her heel. Six guards stood outside her cell, their hardened faces showing their surprise only in a widening of eyes. _Or rather,_ Loki mused, _I wonder who they think you're shouting at._

"Shut up," she whispered. The glass disappeared and the guards entered. She forced herself to stand still, rather than backing into the corner. _Don't show weakness_ , Loki had said; and he might be a liar, but she had a feeling he was right about that. Two of the guards carried a metal hoop with chains leading off from either side; they fastened it around Kate's waist, then took up positions to either side, just out of arm's reach. They allowed too much slack in the chain, though—if she wanted, she could have lunged at one and bitten him or punched him or stabbed him before the other could haul her back like an untrained dog.

_Out of my head, Loki_ , Kate thought, clenching her teeth. He gave her a wounded look before fading. She stared into the dark of the corridor. It wasn't a good thing that she was _seeing_ Loki now, was it?

_No,_ he whispered. Before she could snarl at him, the guards—who'd made a box around her, two ahead, two behind, the chain-holders to either side—began to move. They moved as a block out of the cell and down the corridor, past the nightmare collection and into the stairwell. Halfway up the stairs, Kate's thighs began to protest; by the time she reached the top, her legs were jelly. _No weakness,_ she told herself, and focused on not falling on her face as the guards led her back into the throne room.

Odin was planted on his throne again, looking down at her like she offended him by existing. His eye dropped to her chest, then her feet. _Her hand_. She opened her fist and felt the edges of the wound pull before blood began to run down her pinky. _Frost giant blood on your precious throne room floor._ Odin noted the gesture and frowned.

"Loki of Asgard, you stand accused of treason and murder. With intent to harm our kingdom, you did allow frost giants to enter this castle and slay loyal servants of our realm; you dispatched the Destroyer to Midgard to kill Thor Odinson, heir to the throne of Asgard; and you destroyed the Bifrost, bringing chaos to the Nine Realms. You have further wreaked destruction on Midgard and Jotunheim, where those dead as a result of your actions number in the hundreds and thousands, and the name of Asgard has been blackened by your actions." Odin paused, and Kate's heart skipped a beat. "For these crimes, it would be just to demand your life."

He hadn't taken the muzzle off. _He hadn't taken the fucking muzzle off._ Odin was going to cut off her head and never give her a chance to speak. Kate looked frantically for Thor—surely Loki's brother wouldn't let Odin kill her without even giving her a chance to defend herself—but Thor was nowhere in the room. A few people in more-ornate armor had gathered; Loki's memories identified them as court officials and a few members of the noblest families on Asgard, none of whom particularly liked him. _Where's Frigga?_ Loki asked, and for the first time, his alarm surged greater than hers. _Mother?_

Odin rose. "You have dishonored Asgard," he said, "therefore be you of Asgard no longer. We declare you outlaw, Loki, and from you we strip all titles and honors." He descended from the throne and stood before her. She stared at him, terrified. _Was he going to cut her head off, right here and now?_ He reached for her, and she recoiled; the guards to either side pulled her chains taut. Instead of cutting her throat, though, Odin set his palm against her forehead and murmured something under his breath. An electric shock passed through her body, and suddenly she was lighter; her skin felt exposed. Gasps came from the courtiers.

Kate looked down. Her armor had disappeared; she wore only a cotton shirt and leather trousers. More unsettlingly, she was . . . blue.

_NO,_ Loki shouted in her memories, and she was blinded by the past: by an attacking giant whose touch, instead of burning, turned her skin scarred and ice-colored; by a confrontation with Odin that revealed her true nature. _Frost giant._ Revulsion churned within her. "Stop this," she wanted to demand, but the muzzle held her silent. She pleaded with her eyes, but Odin was already turning his back on her.

"Take him to the gates of the castle and release him," he said. "Let it be known throughout Asgard that Loki is outlawed; he is no longer of Asgard, nor a son of Odin."

He climbed the steps to the throne and sat. In her head, Loki cursed long and colorfully. _What?_ Kate asked, her eyes flicking from face to face in the throne room as the guards tugged at her. _I don't get it. He's releasing us? He's not punishing us? Why are you swearing?_

_HE'S OUTLAWING ME_ , Loki roared in her head. Kate stumbled as the guards dragged her from the throne room. _You stupid mortal bitch, he's declared that the laws of Asgard don't apply to us. The second we step outside the gates, everyone with a grudge against me will have full freedom to pursue revenge. Killing us is no longer murder. Torturing us is no longer assault. Any species of kindness—feeding us, sheltering us, giving us directions—is treason._

The halls that had seemed so long before blurred as the guards rushed Kate through them. She stumbled along gracelessly, too shocked to keep up her pretense of strength. _But how—how are we going to get my body back? If Odin won't listen and Thor doesn't know—is there a way to get back to Earth without the Tesseract?_

_Little fool,_ Loki laughed, his voice edged with panic. _You don't understand. We won't live that long._

_But won't we—can we just get out of the city? You know how to hunt, right? We can survive in the woods? We—we can—_

_This city is nearly as large as New York_ , Loki snapped. _Consider walking from one end of the island of Manhattan to the other. Then fill the streets with people who hate you, and face no consequences for killing you except the approval of their neighbors._

Kate stopped in her tracks and was nearly knocked down. The guards holding her waist chains hauled at her. Glee made their eyes shine. She wanted to sit down right there on the marble floor until she'd absorbed what Loki was telling her, but she suspected that if she did, she wouldn't get up alive.

_What do we do?_ she asked, walking as slowly as she dared, leaning back against the chains. _There has to be a way out of this—there has to be someone on this planet other than Thor and Frigga who likes you, who'll help you._

Even as she thought the words, even before Loki's bitter laugh echoed in her head, she felt her stomach sinking. _You haven't been paying attention, Kate,_ he whispered, his voice a salt-stung wound in her head. _I am a liar and a traitor and a frost giant. I betray the ones who love me and scorn the rest. With this decree, I am alone in the universe—except for you. You are the one person who won't abandon me, Kate—because you exist only in my mind._

The angry reply Kate might have made was cut off when the guards stopped abruptly. "Not the main gate," one of them was saying. They stood at a juncture of hallways; ahead, an archway opened into a high-ceilinged hall whose most prominent feature was a pair of massive wooden doors the size of something on an airplane hanger. The leader of the guards surrounding her pointed to the right, to a plainer door designed to fade into the wall. "The side gate. We'll not make more of him than he deserves."

The other guards hesitated, but evidently agreed with this opaque reasoning; one opened the door and they went through. In contrast to the lightly-trafficked hallways above, these narrower corridors were filled with quick-moving servants who dove out of the way when they saw the guards, then stared.  Whispers of "—outlawed—" "—he's being let go—" "—no longer a prince—" followed behind them, growing from an awed hush to an excited buzz. The guards' booted footsteps were joined by the scrape and clatter of shoes; Kate didn't have to look behind to know that they were being followed. Loki ground his teeth, and Kate caught flashes of memory: of rude dismissals, of wine turned to snakes, of pranks of deception. _They don't like you,_ Kate observed. Loki growled. _They don't like_ you _,_ he said, and Kate shivered as she picked up on a vengeful edge to the voices behind her. _I hope you're a fast runner, Kate._

Kate swore. _Would it have killed you to be nice to_ someone, _Loki?_ she snapped as they approached an open door. Sunlight streamed in from outside, and a woman who was halfway through started and backed away as she saw them approaching. Kate squinted as they stepped out into a small courtyard, lined with benches and modest-looking flowers. A huge wall rose up opposite the door they'd come through; in it, two double doors stood open, and beyond them lay the city. _Asgardian employee entrance_ , Kate thought, watching people walk through the gate, catch sight of the guards, and double-take. The guards stopped her next to a planter filled with some sweet-smelling white flowers. She flinched as the leader closed in on her, but he didn't touch her except to unlock the chains at her waist. They clanged to the ground, ensuring that anyone in the vicinity of the courtyard who hadn't noticed them yet looked in her direction. He reached for her face and she jerked her head back.

"Keep the muzzle on, then, horsefucker," he said, and reached down for her manacles. _Wait, no_ , she wanted to protest, but then the cuffs were clanging to the ground, and the guard had stepped out of the way. "Get out of my castle, Jotunn scum," he said. Kate reached for the muzzle— _if she could just get it off, if she could just explain_ —but before she could do more than scrape her fingers across the metal, the guard had drawn his sword. "Out!" he bellowed, and started to raise his arm.

_Fuck!_ Kate dodged under his arm and took a few steps toward the gate, putting herself out of his reach. Her fingers crawled over the muzzle—there had to be a catch, a latch, a button, _something_ —but before she could find it, she caught motion from the corners of her eyes. The people in the courtyard were moving toward her, their steps slow and careful as wolves padding over snow.

_Fuck me_. She looked for one compassionate face—one single person that might be willing to help her take off the muzzle, or hold back the rest until she could speak—but the eyes of the Aesir in the courtyard were cold with anger and malicious joy, their teeth white between their lips. Some began to edge toward the gates, and ice shot from Kate's guts to her heart at the thought of being trapped in this courtyard—in this bear pit—with nowhere to hide. She stopped trying to get the muzzle off and sprinted for the gate. A few hands reached for her as she ran, brushing her sleeves, but she made it out of the gates without being grabbed—although she nearly ran into the side of a wagon rolling down the street. She looked up and down the street. The castle was on high ground, but not high enough that she could see the edge of the city. _Which way, Loki?_ _Which way do I run?_

_It doesn't matter,_ he said darkly. People who had been walking or riding down the street turned to stare and point; behind her, she heard the angry crowd from the castle following her out the gate. _The city will tear you apart wherever you go._

_Fuck your attitude_. _WHICH WAY?_

To her left was an alley—narrow and dark, it reeked in the summers, but he had used it to slip away from the castle before. The servants knew of it—secret lovers waited there for their beloveds, presumably considering the stench a small price to pay for privacy—but it wasn't in the open, the way the other streets were. Kate sprinted for it, dodging a plow-horse ridden by a girl with bare feet, and darted into the cover of its darkness. Shouts followed her.

_Come on, Loki. Keep our skin in one piece a little longer. Where do I go?_

The alley was narrow, barely wider than her outstretched arms; the ground she ran along was packed dirt made slippery by patches of rotting refuse, presumably carried out of one of the narrow back doors that periodically interrupted the brick and stone walls. Overhead, the sky made a ribbon of blue squeezed between roof-eaves and sliced by laundry-lines that stretched from house to house. Kate nearly slammed nose-first into a door that opened suddenly, and did a quick, comical dance with the woman who stepped out. She gaped when she saw Kate, then as Kate dodged past her, shrieked, "Frost giant! Frost giant in the alley!"

She ran as fast as she could, legs pumping, her hands flashing at the bottom of her field of vision. She'd forgotten about the fact that she was fucking _blue._ Ahead, she saw laundry hanging from a line; without breaking stride, she leapt and grabbed the lowest piece, then landed and kept running, the fabric clenched in her hand.

_Left!_ Loki barked in her head. She skidded to a stop and kicked into a sprint down a narrow gap between houses. A few feet from the end, she glanced back, and when she didn't immediately see anyone in the gap, she reached up to claw at the muzzle.

_Fucking Thor and his fucking gag—_

Her fingernail caught on a seam behind her ear. She jammed her nail in deeper, then felt the other side of the muzzle. With her hands free, she had the range of motion to reach behind her head; in seconds, she was able to pull the cover off the locking mechanism on the muzzle, and moments after that, the device gave a click and loosened. With a snarl of rage, she ripped it off her face and hurled it to the ground. She sucked in half a dozen deep breaths, then turned her face up and screamed until her throat felt like it was bleeding. When she ran out of breath, she leaned against the wall and panted.

_If you're done letting everyone in this neighborhood know where you are, you might want to cover your head and run,_ Loki said. From the alley side of the gap came shouts and the sound of running feet. On the street side, she saw people gathering near the entrance, peering curiously in her direction. If she didn't move fast, she'd be trapped.

She picked up the cloth she'd stolen off the laundry line and wrapped it around her head. It was someone's undershirt, and the long arms wrapped awkwardly under her chin, but at least they'd make it harder to see her face. Her hands she could do nothing about. She faced the street.

"At least give me a sense of where I'm going from here," she said under her breath. "Left or right? Am I looking for another alley?"

Loki was a presence at her shoulder, a ghost leaning down to breathe in her ear. _You'll turn right out of the alley. Once you're in the street, stay there; the back alleys can be complicated, and what you need now is speed. You're racing rumor, Kate, and the only thing faster and deadlier is wildfire. Choose downhill, always. The city's ringed by a wall, but it isn't as high as the castle wall, or as defensible; if you can reach it, you can cross it._

The doubt in his voice was palpable. "Yeah," Kate muttered. "Stupid mortal bitch, I won't get five blocks. _Watch me._ "

_I will,_ Loki whispered as Kate set her feet and took a deep breath. More people were gathering on the street, whispering and looking at her. _Now_ , she thought, and launched herself toward the light. The Aesir scattered like chickens, clucking, then began shouting behind her as she planted her foot in the middle of the street and turned. _Downhill, downhill_ , she repeated to herself, and sprinted. This street was lined with low buildings of stone and brick, two or at most three stories; the surface of the street itself was odd—like mechanically-textured stone. Barely two car-widths separated the buildings, and people walked and wandered and talked the whole way. _Stand on the right, walk on the left!_ Kate thought, irritably, dodging between clumps of chatting Aesir who broke off conversations to stare at her as she passed. Shouts rose behind her, and the people ahead of her began turning her way before she even reached them. "Shit, shit, shit," she hissed, and when she came to a cross-street, she took it. It curved to the left, following the contour of the ground, and was larger than the street she'd been on; she sprinted past the first downward-running street she saw and turned on the second. The buildings were taller here, and the clothing in the streets sparklier; was she leaving working-class Asgard, right outside the castle gates? _Not exactly,_ Loki said, _but you don't really have time for that, my dear. Behind you._

She risked a glance back and nearly groaned aloud. Some of the Aesir from the courtyard were coming down the street, shouting and pointing. She turned her attention back to the street ahead and tried to plan her movements. A few hundred feet ahead and a several dozen feet down, the street dead-ended in a row of buildings that followed a cross-street. _Up and over,_ she thought. _If I can get up and over, I can cut off their sight line to me and get some breathing space._

She needed it. Loki's long legs could chew up distances, but both of them had been through shit recently. She dug for Loki's reserves, hoping they'd be there the way her own were. "Come on, book boy, gimme a second wind," she muttered, and slipped into the higher gear that had always been hers, the place at the edge of her limits where her blood flowed gold and her heart exploded and her limbs were made of finer stuff than flesh. She flew through the crowded street, hurtling like a missile, the contact of her feet serving as much to steer her as to propel her. The buildings at the end of the street rose like mountains.

_Kate, you can't—you have to turn, there's nowhere to go,_ Loki insisted. Below, a cart began to cross the street. She made the calculation in a second: the height of the cart, the path it would follow, the house it would pass when she reached it. _Kate, no!_ Loki shouted in her head.

_Suck it, Loki_ , she thought, baring her teeth. She planted her foot and leapt into the back of the cart—loaded with boxes of something that clanked alarmingly when she landed on them—then jumped onto the sloped roof of the house before her. The roof tiles were some glazed ceramic that clacked when she landed on them and threatened to shed her; only sheer momentum carried her to the ridgeline, where she perched for a moment, grinning at her success, before she looked down.

And down.

And down.

"Fuck!" she shouted as her feet slipped from under her and she began to slide down the tiles. She kicked against the roof, but Loki's boots had shitty grip. On the other side was a thirty-foot drop to the next ring road. She flipped onto her stomach and slapped the tiles, hoping desperately for a gap or a ridge or _anything_ she could grab onto, but she slid inexorably toward the drop like the worst of her falling nightmares made real. "Loki, little help?"

He sat on the ridgeline, watching her. _Tuck and roll, little one_.

"You—!" was all she managed before her legs slid off the roof and dragged the rest of her with them. She dropped straight down and rolled backward, letting Loki's acrobatic reflexes take over. It was a hard landing, but the roll spread out the impact, and if it hadn't been for the god-damned flowerpot, she would have kept rolling straight to her feet and started running again, giddy with adrenaline.

Instead, a few inches from the ground, her left foot hit a stone planter. For a fraction of a second, all her falling weight rested on one leg. The _snap_ was audible.

She rolled backward at an angle, heels over head, and came to rest on her hands and knees, her equilibrium mightily disarranged by the combination of falling and rolling. For a second, she could tell herself that the snap she'd heard was the planter breaking, or her boot, or the sound of her teeth clacking together. _I'm fine, I'm good_ , she thought, and brought her feet under her so she could stand.

Pain blinded her. She froze, head dropping as she instinctively tried to lift her leg away from the ground that had hurt it. When she could move again, she turned herself over and sat, letting out a little gasp as the impact of her butt against the stone jarred her.

_Oh, little one,_ Loki said, sitting next to her. He looked down at the crooked bones of her lower leg and shook his head. _You won't be running anywhere on that._

Her heart thudded in her chest. She was wearing the body of the most hated man on Asgard, in the middle of Asgard's largest city, a few steps ahead of an angry mob, and she'd just broken her leg.

"Fuck me _,_ " she said.


	16. Chapter 16

Loki stretched languidly in his seat as one of the aircraft servants passed by, handing out bits of paper. She looked at his mortal form and her cheeks flushed prettily before she moved on. Loki smiled. It had been years since he'd taken his pleasure as a woman; perhaps before he returned this body to Kate, he'd explore its capacities.

He leaned back, eyes half-lidded. For a short-lived mortal, she had a fine collection of sensual memories. He flicked through them like slides, now and then holding one up to the light. _Memories, and imagination,_ he thought, and dallied with the idea of meeting her between the sheets once their consciousnesses were returned to their proper vessels. Though his enjoyment of mortal bedmates was more usually predicated on trickery—pretending to be a lost husband, or a coveted other's partner—the novelty of fucking someone whose head he'd seen inside was tempting. _I know every inch of sensitive skin, every place she longs to be caressed, every dark sharp desire she refuses to admit even to herself. Fucking her would be thrilling._

And then boring. He let his eyes slide all the way shut. Her reaction, once, would be entertaining; after that, what mystery, what discovery, what excitement for him?

Besides, even if he did decide to let himself be found by Thor once he'd recovered the knife, the odds were that his brother would insist on returning to Asgard immediately once he and Kate were restored. He would have no time for dalliances.

Loki sighed and opened his eyes. Outside the window, Sol's light poured over the horizon, gleaming on the waves far below. He had slept through some of the flight; though the rest had refreshed Kate's body, her sense of time insisted that it was the middle of the night. He watched the sun rise and wondered how Kate fared on Asgard. Once they had discovered her true nature, would they have shown her to his rooms? To a guest suite? Or, suspicious of trickery, would she be locked in a dungeon cell? Was Thor returning to Midgard even now, hammer in hand, a lecture on his lips? Loki looked up at the blue bowl of the sky, starred with the lights of other suns. Had Kate told Odin of Thanos and the Chitauri and the vengeance they undoubtedly planned to exact on him?

Chimes sounded. A voice announced that their descent was beginning. Loki turned his gaze from the window. His questions would be answered in time. For now . . . he had a weapon to steal.

\---

"What's this?"

A door opened behind Kate. _Shit_ , she thought, and searched for a hiding place she could crawl to. Footsteps approached from behind her and Kate braced herself for a round of "frost giant!" or "traitor!" or who knew what.

"Jumping off the roof, hmm? You look a little too old for that sort of foolery, if you don't mind me saying." The footsteps came up to her side and stopped. Their owner wore a pair of shearling-looking slippers. "Ooo. That doesn't look good." He squatted slowly and reached out with weathered hands. "Stay right as you are, son, and let old Haikant see it—"

"Don't," Kate said, panicking at the thought of the old man touching the break, and shoved his burly forearm away. The old man cried out and fell, clutching the place that Kate had touched. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry—" she blurted.

The old man looked at her face, the whites showing around his caramel-brown irises as his mouth dropped open in shock. "You—you're—"

"Please, I just want to get out of here," Kate begged. She raised her hands in a see-I'm-harmless gesture. "I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want to _be_ here, I just—" To her horror and Loki's disgust, she felt tears welling in her eyes. "This is all a mistake. I'm not—I'm not what you think I am. I'm from Midgard, my name is Kate, I came here because I thought I was helping, but nobody is _listening_ to me and now—" She sucked in a breath and clenched her fists as if she could grab her frustration by the throat. The old man kept staring at her, eyes wide; his hand loosened on his arm, and Kate glimpsed frost-blackened flesh underneath. She gasped and started to reach for him, then jerked her hand back.

"Shit, did I do that? Oh, crap. I'm so sorry—I didn't mean—" She looked at her hand, then the stone road where it had rested. Frost grew like a tiny forest where her bare skin had touched. "Shit," she muttered. _Frost giant._ Now she understood, maybe, why people were so freaked out to see her. _I've got freeze-o touch_.

The sound of a pack of running footsteps came from down the street. Kate's head swiveled toward the sound before she looked at the old man desperately. "Please—they'll kill me—"

The old man looked back at her incredulously. As he opened his mouth, though, the pack appeared: a half-dozen angry-looking Aesir in palace-servant clothes, evenly divided between men and women. She flinched as they poured toward her, then remembered Loki's advice and tried to straighten up and look scary. She thrust out her good hand and snarled, "Back off, assholes, or I'll freeze your nuts off."

The tallest of the men—and he was _tall_ —ignored her threatening gesture and grabbed her hand. She was ready for him to howl and let go, so when he hauled her to her feet, she nearly fell right back over. A second palace servant—a woman—ducked under Kate's arm and wrapped her arm around Kate's waist. "Come on, we've got to get him off the street," a third person said, and supported Kate's other side. _What the hell?_ Kate thought, bewildered, as the rest of the group clumped around them, clearly hoping to shield her from view. _I thought you said you didn't have any friends?_

_I don't_ , Loki said, striding ghostlike among them, searching each face. _I've never met these people before. They shouldn't be able to touch you without freezing. They—_ He interrupted himself to stare at the bared arm of the woman on Kate's left. _Kate. You need to get away from them. Now._

"They're fucking _helping_ ," Kate hissed, and the people to either side of her glanced at her in surprise. She gritted her teeth. Ahead, another servant approached with a cart and horse, the back filled with blankets.

_They're Jotuns, Kate. Look at her arm. They can touch you because they're frost giants, too._

"What?" Kate said. She turned her head, but couldn't see what Loki meant until the cart reached them and the two who'd helped carry her unshouldered her arms and started to hand her into the back of the cart. Where Kate's hand had touched the bare arm of the woman servant, the other woman's skin had blushed blue, too. _Kate, I betrayed their king and tried to destroy their world. They're not here to help you!_

"Jesus fucking Christ, Loki, is there anyone you haven't screwed over?" Kate said under her breath. She tried to heave herself out of the back of the cart, but the two servants were quicker than she was, and with one in the cart pulling and the other on the road pushing, they dragged her into the back of the cart. Kate flailed. "Hey! Whoa! I'm not who you think I am! I'm—"

Her protests were cut off by a thick, wooly blanket, and a weight shaped like someone's ass. She whuffed as she was sat on, then made a breathless _gak_ of pain as someone kicked her broken leg.

"Get us out of here," the tall guy commanded, and the cart started rolling. Kate tried to shift the person sitting on her, but one of her arms was pinned, and she quickly became lightheaded from the combination of less air and her own trapped body heat.

_What the fuck, Loki? Why am I being kidnapped by frost giants?_

_They shouldn't be here. Jotun scum—somehow they concealed themselves, like Odin concealed me._ Loki was back to being a furious whisper in her ear. He stilled. _Laufey. "The house of Odin is full of traitors." He meant other traitors. The bastard found out how I brought his men here—_

Images flickered through Kate's mind: Loki's memories. A concealed Loki visiting a world of snow and ice; a ceremony disrupted by alarms; Loki watching as Thor raged and Odin raged back. _What is your fucking problem?_ Kate burst out. _Are you insane? You invited these fuckers into your dad's house because you wanted to screw up Thor's coronation? How fucking childish do you get?_

Loki grabbed her by the throat. _I would have been a better king than Thor could ever have been!_ he snarled. _Thor is a child with a hammer smashing everything that displeases him. He doesn't understand consequences, he doesn't understand deception, he just crashes straight into battle, no matter the cost to Asgard._

Kate choked and tried to smack Loki's hands from her throat, but the blanket tangled around her free arm. _You whining insect, how could you begin to understand?_ Loki sneered. _You whose only rule is over a demesne of ignorant scratchings at the surface of knowledge, you whose only power is to hiss and hush, you crawling worm imagining a shit heap a mountain!_ He shoved her head back and let go of her throat in one motion, and she gasped for air. _I question the value of sanity if imagining myself to be you is the price of it_.

Kate's vision blackened. "Fuck you, Loki," she said, and then she was gone, lost to the dark.


	17. Chapter 17

She woke to pain.

"Inside, inside," someone said, and her blanket-wrapped world slid and shifted as she was dragged from the cart and carried. Her whole leg felt like it was on fire. She struggled against the cloth and the arms that held her, but stopped as her head began to spin. Panic rose in her chest. _I'm suffocating, I'm suffocating, I can't breathe, it's too hot, I can't breathe!_

The people carrying her dropped her to the floor. She let out a strangled shriek and curled into a ball as pain battered her. The blanket ripped away from her. _Air._ She sucked in a lungful before rough hands dragged her upright. People surrounded her, bent her arms behind her, wrapped her wrists with wire that dug into her skin, then began to tear at her clothes, stripping her of shirt, pants, and boots in moments. She had a moment to look down her blue chest at her blue penis and think _okay, having a dick is weirder than having no boobs_ before many hands gripped her and raised her to her feet. She gave herself a desultory shake—she wasn't _totally_ sure that she could stay upright if she freed herself from the grip of her captors—before someone looped a rope around her neck.

"Whoa! Hold the fuck up!" Kate yelped. "I'm not—"

A very large fist smashed into her cheekbone. Small bones crackled in her face. She growled a wordless protest that was cut off by the rope tightening around her throat. "I'm not—" she tried again before taking a second fist, this time to the other side of her face. She let out a low moan.

"Loki Silvertongue, God of Mischief," an unusually deep female voice said. "It is so _very good_ to see you."

The rope around her neck lifted, forcing her chin up. The people who had surrounded her parted to allow Kate to look up at the speaker: an eight-foot-tall blue woman with red eyes whose Cheshire smile revealed a mouthful of pointy teeth. _Giant. Frost giant. Okay_ , Kate thought, and gritted her teeth. _So they grow 'em big on Jotunheim._

"What, no clever words for me, Silvertongue? No mockery? No threats?" The giant woman's smile disappeared. "Threaten me, Loki, so I may have the pleasure of laughing at you."

"Go to hell," Kate snarled. The giantess clicked her tongue.

"Oh, Loki. Perhaps your rough handling has dampened your wit? Most disappointing." She flicked her fingers. The giant-people holding onto Kate let go. She balanced precariously on her good leg before the rope around her neck tightened and lifted, and she was forced to her toes.

"Gack," she said.

The giantess leaned down to look at her. "Laufey's runt," she said. "Farbauti should have drowned you the second she saw what a worthless mewler she shat out." She straightened. "Look at you. Hopping like a sparrow, running from Aesir like a kicked dog. Your existence shames my blood."

"Aack," Kate said.

The giantess narrowed her eyes at Kate, then looked away. "Loosen the rope," she said.

Kate balanced precariously on one foot and gasped for breath. The spots blackening her vision faded as she sucked in air. "I'm not Loki," she said in a voice made harsh by strangulation. "Will one of you fucking dunderheads listen to me? _I. Am. Not. Loki._ Loki's on Earth—on Midgard. He's looking for—"

Kate was interrupted by a gale of laughter. "Not Loki?" the giantess roared. "Oh, Silvertongue, your lie-maker's tarnished. I suppose you're really some innocent fool caught up in the God of Mischief's schemes, then? Someone—oh, yes, a mortal, a _mortal_ dupe for Loki, yes?"

Tears sprang to Kate's eyes and froze on her cheeks. She hated them. "Yes," she snarled. The giantess cackled.

"Ah, Loki, I won't believe that one. What else? What other lies do you have for us today? _Entertain us_ ," she said, and the disguised frost giants around her grinned and laughed with her, the sound filling the room like a flood. Kate bared her teeth, trying to hold back sobs. _Bastard offspring of a giant's stinking armpit,_ Loki snarled in Kate's ear, and she almost lost control at the relief of hearing him back again. _I'd blast their winter world into chaos again, fall into exile again, just to shut their rotting holes._

_Loki, get us out of this. Please. Get us the fuck out of this._

He stood before her, to the giantess's side, and the heat of his anger turned cold. _Kate._

"Get me the fuck out of this, Loki!" she screamed, and the frost giants fell into a startled silence. "I did what you asked! I pretended! I let Thor haul me back to your fucking nightmare of a planet! I am _done_ taking the punishment that you _fucking deserve_ , now _get me out of this and give me my fucking body back you lying cocksucker!"_

The giants were silent for a second longer before bursting into hysteria. They slapped each other's backs and repeated Kate's words in voices made breathless by laughter. The giantess laughed hardest of all, her deep-voiced merriment shaking the ground. Loki stood silent and still, his eyes locked on Kate. She could feel her chin trembling.

_Kate. It's time to stop pretending._

"No!" she shouted, and the giants' laughter tapered off. "I'm not you! Fuck you, Loki, I'm real! I'm real and I am _not_ a figment of your imagination!"

Some of the giants began laughing again, but others—including the giantess—watched her with curiosity. Loki strode forward and stood before Kate, his green eyes stern and sad at the same time.

_It was a good try, Loki. But this is the end. Let's be honest with ourselves—we're naked and stripped of our magic in a room full of our enemies. Thor is on another world. Even if there was someone on this planet who wanted Loki alive, no one knows where we are but these Jotun animals. If we are to die, let us do it without this demeaning pretense of being a mortal._

"No," Kate rasped, shaking. _She was real, she was real, god damn it, she was real._ "Fuck yourself with rusty rebar, Loki. I'm not letting you—"

"BORED," the frost giantess roared, and waved a hand. "Sew his mouth shut."

Kate blinked, her mouth hanging open in surprise—surely the giantess hadn't said what it sounded like she'd just said. Then Kate saw the needle.

And she screamed.


	18. Chapter 18

Thor picked his way across the field, glancing up occasionally as Alfar kestrels flew overhead, pursuing the last Chitauri chariot-riders from the sky. The strange, musky stink of Chitauri blood mixed with smoke until it thickened every breath he took. When he met Fridur in the middle of the field, she'd rewrapped her headscarf over her mouth and nose. The scarf and her carnelian lacquered armor were spattered with lighter blotches of Chitauri blood.

"Well met, Thor Odinson," she said, her almond eyes glittering with cheerfulness over the edge of the scarf. "It seems that little mallet of yours came in useful after all."

Thor smiled. The Alfar princess had a tongue as quick as her sword, and she was as free with one as the other. "I could say the same thing about that shiny hatpin, Fridur Dofrisdotter. Truly, I fear Fandral will ask your hand in marriage for the chance to borrow it."

She grinned back, her sharpened teeth gleaming through the thin fabric of her scarf, and put a possessive hand on the hilt of her jian. "He'll have to prove he's as good a swordsman in the bedroom as in the field," she said, then grinned wider when Thor blushed.

"The Chitauri run," he said, and looked up. "And your kestrels pluck them from the sky like pigeons."

Fridur allowed him the change of subject, joining him in his contemplation of the skyline. As they watched, a kestrel and a chariot exchanged arrows and cannon blasts, and the chariot plunged from the sky.

"They are our pride," she said, then turned to Thor. "But I cannot speak too highly of the aid you have rendered us. Without your knowledge of the Leviathans, we would have lost many. You will be remembered in the thankful prayers of many Alfar wives and husbands tonight, Thor Odinson."

The seriousness in her voice made Thor look down at her before he looked at the horizon again, his eyes fixing on scenes of battle from a different world. "But not all," he said softly.

"No," she agreed. "Not all." From the corner of his eye, he saw her look up at him again. "You are solemn, Thor. I thought Asgardians celebrated after their battles."

"We do," he said, and felt the heaviness that had lifted from his heart during the battle settle back into his chest. "But I fear I am not finished fighting yet."

"Your brother." Thor looked at her sharply. She raised a slim, dark brow. He frowned, then nodded. She spread her feet wider and settled her hands on her belt. "I know little of the troubles between you, but I have a younger brother of my own whom I would gleefully strangle, most days. Speak, and I'll listen, one eldest-child to another."

"Has your brother tried to kill you three times?" Thor said. He'd meant the words lightly, but they dropped like struck grouse between them. Fridur didn't flinch, though.

"Three times," she repeated, then tilted her head. "From the little I know of your brother, either you are a very hard man to kill, or he hasn't been particularly interested in succeeding."

Thor shook his head. He wanted the latter to be true—a brother's desire, rather than a king's impartial assessment. When he didn't speak again immediately, Fridur's armor clacked as she shifted her weight.

"I know what it is like to be heir, Thor. To have . . ." She grimaced. "Parents who hope for much for you and friends who cannot help but see the crown you do not yet wear. Thoughts which breed like snakes in your head and are as dangerous to speak aloud in the wrong company." He looked at her sidelong to find her steady brown eyes trained on him. "Speak to me of your brother as you would tell a friend, for that's how I'll listen—not as princess of Alfheim, nor as an Asgardian, but with my—" she tweaked the long point of one ear beneath her scarf "—stranger's ears. Perhaps in the telling you'll find some order in your thoughts."

He smiled at the gesture, as she'd meant him to, and watched the first of Alfheim's two suns touch the horizon. "He is a clever man, my brother," Thor murmured finally. "And a good one. But he—he was lost to us, for a time. I searched for him across the nine realms, shook every gray beard I found until they could speak some guess at where he'd gone. My father said he was dead, but I couldn't act as if I believed that. Not if there was a chance my little brother was out there, somewhere." He glanced at Fridur and received a nod of agreement. He swallowed and turned his face toward the horizon again, unable to see anything but the expression that had settled onto Loki's face the moment before he let go of the staff. The moment his little brother lost hope.

The sight pursued him nightly in his dreams.

"He was a good man," Thor repeated, a familiar pain lancing through his chest. "No matter what's said of him—he was a good man, I know that." He swallowed. "He would have made a better king than me. Cleverer, better at the—the words and the white lies and the maneuverings." He bit his lip, then said the words that had been eating at him for months, his voice a whisper. "I would kneel to that man, now. Give up the throne in his favor. I would be ruled by him, and I would be happier—gods, I would be happier than I can imagine." Thor closed his eyes for a moment, the pain of that admission waking tears. "But now . . ." He swallowed and opened his eyes again. "The man I found on Midgard is not the little brother I knew. And this—" He waved a hand helplessly. "This man I left in Asgard's dungeons—I know him even less. Mischief and caprice are turned to malice and madness. The good man—I want to believe he still exists, but the evidence of my eyes and ears argues against it."

Fridur looked across the battlefield, and Thor allowed himself to feel the full measure of grief he had resisted for so long, first with denial of his brother's death, then with hope at the news that the tesseract had been found, and most lately with battle on Midgard and on Alfheim. In the year since he had lost Loki, he had spent many nights searching his memories of their shared boyhood and found much in his own behavior that brought him shame. He had mocked Loki for using sorcery and trickery instead of might, not recognizing that his own strength made any direct contest unwinnable for Loki; he had ignored what was, in retrospect, obvious favoritism from Odin to Thor's benefit and Loki's loss. Perhaps most painful had been listening to his friends—his good friends, Sif and Fandral and Hogun and Volstagg—speak of Loki, and recognizing in their words a dislike that had festered into hatred without his notice.

Thor had been an arrogant man, hungry for war, blind to the cost. Had Thor been made heir before his father fell into the Odinsleep, he would have begun a war with Jotunheim, just as Loki had—only instead of using the Bifrost to destroy Jotunheim, he would have lead hundreds of Aesir to their deaths.

Loki had been right to stop him. If only he had chosen different methods, if only he had not unseated Thor with lies and trickery . . .

But that was Loki's nature, as much as it had been Thor's nature to smash every problem he encountered.

_If I had paid attention, if I had been a little less arrogant, if I had just listened to Father . . . none of this would have happened. The Bifrost would be whole. Jotunheim would be not snarling at our backs._

_Loki would still be my little brother._

"Faith is a dangerous thing, Thor Odinson," Fridur said, interrupting his dark-spiraling thoughts. She didn't look at him as she spoke, her eyes tracking a flight of circling kestrels. "It defies logic, and time, and all we claim as evidence of reality, and because of that, it makes chaos." Her eye slid sideways to his. "But sometimes faith reveals the truth beneath the trappings. Sometimes we start with chaos, and faith is all we have to make order of it."

"Your words are wiser than my wits can follow, good Fridur," Thor said, smiling. "I am only a simple warrior, and one that has been struck many blows to the head besides."

Fridur rolled her eyes at him. "A simpler story then." She pointed her chin at the sinking sun. "We call them the sisters—Big Sister and Little Sister," she said. "Every day, Little Sister crosses the sky, and every day, her big sister follows her into the night. We do not know if they meet, there in the dark; if they argue and part and that is why Little Sister runs and Big Sister follows. All we know is that Big Sister never gives up, no matter how many times Little Sister runs away; she always follows." Fridur glanced at him. "It's folly, perhaps. She'll never catch up to her sister, not during the day. But they are sisters. It is in her nature not to give up on her family."

"Kings are not suns," Thor said, his voice equally quiet. "Nor brothers. If Little Sister left the sky, ran away across the stars, Big Sister could not follow, not without leaving the world in darkness. If Little Sister swung down from her perch and scorched the earth, could Big Sister shrug her shoulders and say, 'She is mad, she swerves from her course, we must forgive her'? No."

Fridur looked at the sky again. "This is true. A king does not belong to himself; his soul, his desires cannot be his own." Her eyes slid sideways. "But you are not a king. Not yet."

Thor was silent. He was not king of Asgard. It was not his duty to punish Loki; not yet. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _my duty is to reason with him. To find the roots of this madness and weed them from Loki's heart before they can grow into a vine that strangles it._

_To ensure that I will never have to choose between being Loki's brother and being a king._

Thor turned to Fridur and offered his hand. "Fridur Dothisdotter, I thank you for your counsel," he said. "You will be a wise queen to the Alfar one day."

Fridur took his forearm in a warrior's grip and clasped it hard. "And a friend to Asgard," she said, looking him steadily in the eyes.

Thor and Fridur broke into smiles at the same time. "Now will you celebrate, o prince of gloom?" Fridur teased. Thor's smile faded.

"I fear not," he said, and looked at the setting sun before turning to her again. "And I also fear I must ask a boon of you, good Fridur."

"I think I know it," she said, her voice wry. She plucked at her headscarf. "Allow me a moment to find something a bit less bloodsoaked, and I will accompany you to Asgard." Thor started to protest, and she held up a long-fingered hand to stop him. "I would meet this brother of yours who draws you as surely as Little Sister." She grinned. "Perhaps he simply needs his ears boxed. It works on Bui."

Thor smiled at the thought of Fridur clouting Loki like a boy. "Perhaps we shall try it," he said, and bowed. "I thank you, Fridur Dothisdotter."

"Come," she said, and tipped her head toward the Alfar camp. "I have a horse blanket that will do for that cape of yours. I shant appear in Asgard with one who looks as if he's been mud-rolling instead of fighting, prince or not."

Thor laughed, and together they set out across the field, Big Sister chasing Little Sister below the horizon.


	19. Chapter 19

It was full dark on Alfheim before Thor and Fridur were ready to return to Asgard. Fridur's lieutenants, Leilo and Kii, had insisted on providing them a hasty but filling meal of lamb stew, and Thor had spent half an hour convincing Sif and the Warriors Three that they ought to stay on Alfheim. Volstagg and Fandral had needed little convincing—the Alfar were excellent hosts, and Fandral had quickly befriended a pair of Alfar shieldmaidens—but Sif, with Hogun's silent presence at her side speaking for him, had objected. "We came here at your side, and that is how we will leave," she said, folding her gauntleted arms.

Thor sighed and wished for Loki's silver tongue. "Good Lady Sif, your strong arm is needed more here than on Asgard," he said. He scanned the torch-lit dark between the tents to make sure no Alfar were close enough to hear, then looked back at Sif. "We do not yet understand why the Chitauri have attacked Alfheim, and I would have an answer to that question before we withdraw."

"Then stay yourself," Sif retorted. "If my arm is needed, then so is yours. Stay, and seek answers to your own question."

Thor clenched his jaw. Sif glared at him. He valued her stubbornness—it had released him from exile, after all, even if that release had come at a high price—but in this matter, he suspected it would be more hindrance than help. He thought of what Fridur had said earlier, about friends who saw a crown he did not yet wear. _Sif sees no crown_ , he thought, _and I will be grateful for that. Another time._

"Sif. Hogun. I ask this of you, my most trusted warriors, as one who will be your king: stay."

Disbelief flashed in Sif's eyes, then hurt, then anger. Thor felt it like claws lashing his chest, but did not flinch. Sif's lips tightened like the curl of a fist before she said, "As you wish, your highness," and turned her back to him.

Thor watched her stalk away, aching with the pain of her anger at him, then turned to Hogun. His grim companion's expression rarely revealed much; the slight downward turn to Hogun's mouth was as good as another man's volley of curses. Hogun met Thor's eyes for a moment before following Sif. Thor watched them go, heart heavy.

Fridur's armor clacked behind him. He schooled his face not to show the sadness he felt, and turned to the Alfar princess. Her dark eyes were sympathetic, but when she spoke, she mentioned nothing of what she had overheard.

"Come," she said. "It is best to step on the path of stars where none may wander into the void unknowing."

Thor nodded and followed her as she walked between the tents, then under the high branches of the forest. The sounds and lights of the camp faded to a murmur behind them; under their feet, a well-worn path wended between thick-boled grandfather oaks and clumps of saplings fighting for sunlight until it reached a clear space in the trees. Thor's boots clacked against stone: roughly-carved blocks blackened with age and caulked with moss ensured no trees grew in a space large enough for a dozen horsemen, or three dozen warriors afoot. The light from the stars overhead painted Fridur in silver.

"Places like this one exist across Alfheim," she said, gesturing. "They allow those who can walk the star paths to move quickly if trouble arises."

Thor blinked, remembering a story from his childhood, then grinned. "The ghost warriors of Alfheim. This is how they travel?"

Fridur rolled her eyes. "Superstitious Aesir. They are not ghosts."

"But you don't mind the story spreading," Thor added. "Not if it frightens your enemies."

Fridur smiled, then curled her fingers at him. He joined her in the center of the clearing. Her skin was cool and hard, and the sword-calluses on her palm scraped his as he took the hand she offered. He studied her profile as she turned her face upward, looking at the stars. The headscarf framed her features pleasingly, emphasizing the long, lean curve of her jaw; she had a rounded nose and full lips. If not for her height and almond eyes and the warm brown of her skin, Thor could let his vision soften and pretend—just for a moment—that it was not Fridur beside him, but another woman—a woman he missed most desperately—

Fridur grinned at him, flashing her sharp teeth. "Ready to walk the path of stars, Thor Odinson?" she asked.

_She is not Jane, and you wrong her to wish otherwise,_ Thor chided himself as he smiled back at Fridur. "I am ready."

Fridur's smile stiffened for a fraction of a second, then she squeezed his hand. "Then let us go," she said, and against his forearm Thor felt a flash of heat coming from Fridur's vambraces before the air around them disappeared and the ground beneath them disappeared and all around them was the star-pricked void and then they were standing on stone again but it was the perfect flatness of Asgardian masonry and the air was filled with the familiar perfume of roses. High above, framed by the walls and the castle itself, the familiar night sky of Asgard shone, while in the courtyard, dim torches brightened at their arrival. Thor and Fridur inhaled deeply at the same time, and broke into laughter.

"Does the brave Fridur, princess of Alfheim—"

"The brave Fridur is always relieved not to be stuck in the void," she said tartly, interrupting Thor before he could finish his teasing, and shoved his shoulder lightly. "The brave Fridur has a healthy respect for the infinite and very little desire to be stuck in the middle without a map."

Thor's chuckles died. _Stuck in the middle of the infinite without a map;_ was that not what Loki had faced? Fridur sensed his change of mood and narrowed her eyes at him, but before she could speak, a uniformed guardsman peeked through the open doorway into the courtyard, then stepped across the threshold and came to attention. "Your highnesses," he said, searching the dim courtyard behind them before coming back to Thor. "We—uh—welcome back to Asgard."

"I know we're not expected, Egill," Thor said, smiling to ease the young guardsman's obvious discomfort. The night watch over the courtyard reserved for the use of visiting Alfar should have been uneventful, and so would have been assigned to a junior guard. "I need to speak to my brother." Nervousness fluttered Thor's stomach. "Does he remain in the dungeons, or has Odin . . ."

Thor hadn't known how he would finish the sentence he had begun— _has Odin exiled him? Has Odin executed him?_ —but the ashen look on the guard's face ensured he didn't have to. "Egill," Thor said, sharper and louder than he meant. "Where is my brother?"

Egill's eyes flicked to Fridur, then Thor. He took a deep breath, his hand going to his sword for reassurance—at least, Thor assumed it was reassurance—before he said, "Your highness, Odin has declared Loki an outlaw. He was taken to the castle gates and released. I—I know no more."

The guilty look in his eyes said that he lied. Thor clenched his hands, just stopping himself from advancing on the hapless young guard. _Loki outlawed._ For a moment, he was blind and breathless, the horror of it falling on him like a disturbed snowpack. _Outlawed. Stripped of his royal status and sent into the streets. And if he'd outlawed Loki, then Odin would not be so merciful as to leave him his magic, either._

Thor harbored no illusions about Loki's reputation among the common people of Asgard, not since the destruction of the Bifrost. While they were careful not to say so in front of Thor, most thought of him as a traitor, and those who weren't happy that he had fallen into the void only felt so because they wished to see him punished under Asgardian law. They would not show Loki kindness.

They would tear him apart.

_He's clever,_ Thor told himself, trying to quell the horror rising in his throat. _Loki's always been clever; even without his magic, he'll find some way of disguising himself, he'll find a place to hide, he'll—he'll leave the city._ Thor straightened, his hands relaxing, and didn't notice that Fridur's grip loosened on her sword or that the guard's hunched shoulders dropped.

"Who took him to the gates?" Thor demanded. "I would know which way he went."

_He'll leave the city, probably under cover of night. If I can find out what direction he took, I can him before anyone else does._

Panic widened Egill's eyes. "Your highness—Loki is outlawed—I'm not sure that—"

Thor barely stopped himself from snarling at the boy. To aid an outlaw was treason; ordering the boy to talk would only place him in an impossible position. _Besides, my quarrel is not with him._

This time, he didn't stop his snarl. "Tell the All-Father I am coming," Thor said, and strode past the boy, leaving it to the servants' network to pass the message that would wake his father—or not. At the moment, he was so angry that he didn't care if he roused Odin in his nightclothes.

Behind him, Fridur followed with slapping boots and clacking armor, trading haste for her usual near-silent glide. She caught up to his side and glanced at him.

"Being declared an outlaw is a bad thing, then," she said. Thor felt a moment's guilt at dragging her into his family's disputes, then gave himself a mental shake. As much as he wished his brother's misbehavior was only a family problem, it was not. Loki had threatened Asgard's relations with two realms already; to hide him from Fridur, who was, after all, Alfheim's representative, would suggest that Asgard intended to keep secrets from its allies.

"My father has stripped Loki of every right of citizenship," he said, then shook his head. "Of every right of existence. Aiding him is treason. A mob could drag him into the street and throw him into a fire and no one would stop them."

"We are talking about your younger brother, once second in line to the throne?" Fridur said, her voice raised. "The one you searched for when you thought he was dead?"

Thor walked faster, letting his lack of answer speak for itself. Fridur stopped looking at him when she started to fall behind. "You have a very interesting family, Thor."

He couldn't think of a good answer to that comment, so he didn't speak. He bypassed the Great Hall and went straight to the family quarters, where the posted guards started at the sight of Fridur but didn't try to stop her, or Thor. At the doors to his father's rooms, though, the guards were waiting for him.

"You cannot pass, your highness," one guard warned, her white-knuckled grip on her spear putting the lie to the confidence in her voice. "The All-Father will not be disturbed until morning."

"Is he within?" Thor asked. The guard swallowed, and her partner shifted uneasily.

"He is, your highness. But he will not see you."

Once—and not so long ago—Thor might have shoved the guards aside and torn the doors open. Now he drew a long breath and asked, "Has my mother returned?"

"She is with the All-Father," the guard said, some of her tension disappearing—but not all. Thor considered his options as she watched him, anxious. Finding a way to confront Odin, waiting for morning, seeking out one of his father's advisors to report what had happened—all took time. Time Loki didn't have.

"Which gate?" he asked. The guard's brow furrowed.

"Sire?"

"Which gate did my brother leave by?" Thor said, bubbling anger making him bite the words off. The pair glanced at each other and for a moment Thor thought he _would_ be laying his hands on his father's guards tonight.

"The servants' gate," the one who hadn't spoken yet said. Thor turned his back on them and began to move.

He'd snuck out through the servants' gate before—men and women used it constantly, at all hours of the day and night, and it was never locked. Someone there would know which way Loki had gone.

Or been pursued in.

When he began to run, Fridur matched his pace, and their running steps synchronized. The royal splendor of the castle flashed by, but all Thor could see were nightmare images of his brother: chased by a mob with stones or clubs, cowering in the dark of an alley, shivering with fear as he hid in a culvert or a ditch.

Or worse: his brother gone mad, killing anyone who stood in his way.

His brother bloody and broken on the street, his face once again sweet and soft in death, as Thor had seen so many dead in the streets of Midgard, in the fields of Alfheim—

_Will there never be an end to the killing?_ Thor thought. _Or will it end only with your death, brother?_

The servants looked startled when Thor burst into their halls, then guilty. Every downturned eye infuriated him. "Where?" he roared. "Where did my brother go?" He strode toward the gate, searching for one person—one—who would look him in the face, but none would. At the doorway that led into the courtyard, he turned to face the anteroom of servants—their numbers already lessened, he could tell, from when he had entered—and let his anger and desperation rip loose. "Will none of you speak? Is this hate for my brother or fear of my father that stops your tongues? Is there _no one here_ with love enough for me to speak? _No one?_ "

The silence that fell—devoid of footsteps, or dish clatter, or armor's jingle, or burden's thudding rest—was thick with held breath. Thor looked every servant in the face. Some looked away; others met his gaze defiantly. _This is your destruction,_ _Loki,_ Thor thought, his heart a still, heavy stone in his chest. _You began it. Odin and I have finished it._

Scuffling came from the courtyard outside. Thor turned, his stone heart fluttering back to life at the thought that maybe—just maybe—his clever little brother had never left, had concealed himself in the shadows or among the servants; but when he stepped out from under the roof of the castle, the man who squinted at him was not Loki. He was older, gray-haired and dressed in the worn leathers of a hunter, though he wore thick-soled city-boots. One arm was freshly bandaged. He shook off the restraining grip of a servant, and Thor held up his hand in command when the woman tried to grab hold of the old hunter again. The old man ignored Thor's gesture, his mouth set in a frown.

"Prince," he said. "You seek the outlaw Loki?"

"Do you have news of him?" Thor asked.

"Is it news if it is hours old, and stale to every ear here but yours? I suppose it is," the old hunter said. He saw Thor's impatience and said, "I saw him taken. By frost giants."

Scattered laughs mixed with mutterings of anger and derision from the others in the courtyard and in the doorway to the castle. Thor and the old hunter ignored them.

"Where did you see them? Where did they go?" Thor asked.

The old man pointed behind and away. "The second ring road, near the Terraces. Loki came running like a madman, jumped off a roof and broke his leg. Thought it was some young palace idiot until I tried to help him and he did this." The old man raised his arm and peeled away the bandage to reveal healing frost-burns in the shape of a hand. For a moment, Thor thought the old man had confused his story—he meant that a _frost giant_ had done that to him when he tried to help Loki. "I don't think he meant to hurt me—he babbled some apologies when he realized what he'd done, and started saying something about not wanting to be here. He wasn't in his right mind, for sure—he was talking about Midgard, and someone named Kate—"

_Loki had frost-burned the old man with his touch_ — _the way Volstagg had been frost-burned when they had last ventured to Jotunheim._ Then Thor understood: _Loki was in his Jotunn form._ Odin had stripped Loki of the magic he'd worn since Odin had brought him back from Jotunheim. His brother had been turned onto the streets of Asgard with the shame of his birth blazoned across every inch of his skin, prevented by his very nature from touching or being touched by any Aesir. _Cursed._

_Odin, you are a cruel man,_ Thor thought, and rage turned him mute and blind. _How dare you do this to your son! How dare you taunt him with the knowledge that first drove him to madness?_

When Thor could see again, he had not moved, but everyone else in the courtyard—Fridur and the old man included—had backed away from him. He waited for his throat to clear, and when he could speak again, thunder rumbled overhead a second after his words. "Where did they go, uncle?"

"To the north," he answered, and pointed. "They had a cart. Six of them all together, dressed like this lot." He nodded at the servants, and a low, angry muttering rose in reply. "They could touch him. Picked him up off his feet and carried him. That's how I knew they were frost giants. Anyone else woulda been burned, like me, but they didn't even flinch."

"How long ago was this?" Thor demanded.

The old man shrugged. "After midday." He glared around him. "I tried'ta warn the king about the frost giants, but this lot has kept me on my heels since I came. Don't believe me that there were frost giants wearing the king's livery, probably walking the halls right next to them fer days. Embarrassed, I don't doubt," he said, and spat. "And they should be. Aesir, they call themselves, and can't see a frost giant in front of their noses. Pah!"

The servants stirred uneasily. Thor became conscious of Fridur at his side, waiting and watching, her sharp Alfar eyes making their own assessments. "I must go into the city," he said, dropping his voice to a whisper that only she would hear. She looked up at him. "What I do now…" He hesitated, then made himself say it. If he could do it, he could say it aloud. "What I do now is not treason, but if I find my brother alive, I will try to protect him, and that will be treason. I cannot—"

"You don't have to ask, because you don't need to," Fridur interrupted. She showed her teeth in a smile without a hint of friendliness. "Besides. I am not Aesir."

Thor locked eyes with her. It wasn't as simple as that, and both of them knew it: Fridur was the Crown Princess of Alfheim; joining Thor in his treason would risk diplomatic disaster. For a moment, Thor wavered. It was one thing to risk his life and freedom for Loki; it was another to jeopardize the safety of both their kingdoms. Fridur wrapped her fingers around Thor's vambrace.

"I will not risk our kingdoms," she said, as if she'd read his mind. Her sharp-toothed smile disappeared. "But I would understand this business. And I have no love for the frost giants."

Relief washed over Thor. He turned to Fridur and offered her his hand, and gripped hers tight when she took it. "Fridur Dothisdotter, I would have no other at my side."

She grinned at him when he let go, and whispers fluttered through the courtyard at the sight of her teeth, white and sharp. "Then let us hunt."


	20. Chapter 20

He burned twice.

First, with the fires the Jotuns set: naked flame, heated iron, glowing coal, they used them all on him, taking turns obliterating the sacred scars that proclaimed him son of Laufey, rightful king. He would have ignored the mutilation, retreated into his mind, but there—there the fires burned hottest.

There, he remembered Thanos.

The pain of screaming through sewn lips paled in comparison to feeling his skin split and bleeding from lack of water, to remembering the sight of his own bones peeking from a nest of his charred flesh. Thanos had destroyed him and remade him a dozen times, a hundred times, until every cell of his being crawled with the uncanny sensation that Thanos's wretched machines left in the flesh they rebuilt. "Kneel," Thanos had said a hundred times, his voice each time as bored and uncaring as when he gave the command to torture Loki further for his refusal, until the last time. Until Loki knelt.

"In the end, you will always kneel," Thanos had rumbled, those evil blue eyes gleaming with something like satisfaction, and Loki had hated Thanos, and Odin, and Thor, but most of all, he had hated himself for kneeling.

Now he hung from his hands—the Jotuns had taken the rope from his neck after the second time he blacked out—and he waited for dawn. Gerd, the giantess, had promised him death then. "We'll cut open your belly and fill it with coals," she had said, "and then we'll take what's left of you and throw it on that fire." She had bent close to him and threaded her fingers through his hair, forcing his neck into a long, vulnerable arc. "I should thank you for killing our father, Loki," she had whispered. "With Laufey dead and you a traitor, the Jotun were forced to make me regent. I shall recover the casket of Ancient Winter, crush Asgard, and rebuild Jotunheim on its ashes. I shall be the first and greatest queen of New Jotunheim, Loki, and my rule will be glorious. Oh brother mine," she had whispered, her breath cold on his ear, "you were a fool to fail Thanos."

Loki swayed on his one good leg and squinted through swollen eyes. The frost giants had gathered at the far end of the room, away from the fireplace in front of which Loki dangled. A festive air prevailed among them as they refreshed themselves with water and ate Asgardian versions of Jotunheim delicacies: frozen beef sliced thin, blood ice, marrow on bread.

_Fucking assholes_ , he thought. _Acting like it's the fucking Super Bowl._ He let his head fall back and looked up at the knots securing his hands. His vision swam; he tried to focus anyway. One of the Jotuns noticed and walked over, an apple in his hand. He stood in front of Loki, took a bite of the apple, and chewed, then turned his back and said something to the other frost giants that made them laugh. Loki didn't hear it.

_The apple._

_The apple on the train._

_On the train on Earth on the way to New York City, wearing my white blouse and my jeans and my purple sneakers, eating the apple and the crackers that Kinsley put in my bag—_

_Lie. A lie. You were never her. You were never innocent. You could have let Thanos kill you. You could have found another way to protect Asgard from Thor's rule. You always wanted power, Loki, and you never really gave a damn who you had to crush to get it. Stop pretending to be Kate._

He—she?—squeezed his/her eyes shut tight, clenched her/his hands. She wasn't him. _She wasn't_. She was Kate, she was born in Albany, she was twenty-three years old, she was allergic to cats and pollen and she wore glasses sometimes and contacts other times and—

_Does it matter? Does it even matter who you are? You're going to die. Who gives a damn who you are?_

_I AM NOT LOKI. I'M NOT. I'M KATE._

The Jotuns' voices grew louder and they started to drift away from their table, toward her. Despair weighed on her heart.

_I'm Kate, and I'm going to die._


	21. Chapter 21

Finding the frost giants took much of the night, and would have been impossible without Fridur. Thor and Fridur located the place that the old man had met Loki and found a handful of people who could point them in the direction the cart had gone, but as night drew on, it became harder to find anyone to question—much less someone who'd seen the cart and its freight of disguised frost giants. After a half hour of fruitless wandering that had left Thor increasingly snappish, Fridur had returned them to the last person they'd spoken to who'd seen the cart. She was an alewife who'd been in the midst of kicking out an inebriated patron when she grabbed said patron's collar to keep him from stumbling into the path of the fast-moving cart; she was even less inclined to speak to them when they returned than she had been when first they interviewed her.

"I told yer lordships I only glimpsed the damned thing," she said, and cast a glare over her shoulder at a group of very drunk, very loud, very off-key Aesir. "Gale! Quit that racket, or I'll cut you off! And that's the last stray dog you bring into my tavern, you hear?"

"I know, and that glimpse is all I need," Fridur said. "If you'll let me peek at it just a moment, we'll be out of your taproom and on our way with praises for your ale for all to hear."

The alewife narrowed her eyes at Fridur, then at Thor. "That true?"

Thor tried not to wince visibly at the slight to the heir of Alfheim. "It is."

The alewife sniffed, then looked at Fridur. "All right, then. Work your magic, if that's what you're wanting."

"Thank you," the Alfar princess said. She touched the woman's temple with three fingers and half-closed her eyes, then lifted her hand. The alewife fidgeted.

"Well? Get on with it."

Fridur whispered something under her breath, then opened her eyes fully. Green like the iridescence of a peacock feather flashed over her brown eyes. "It's done," she said. "Thank you, good lady, and good fortune to your house."

She backed away, leaving Thor to echo her thanks and the alewife to frown after them once he left. He found Fridur in the middle of the street, taking off her boots.

"Good Fridur?"

She tossed the boots to Thor, who caught them, and wiggled her long toes against the stone before shuffling toward the side of the road. "A moment, Thor. I just need to find—ah! There." She planted a foot and looked off down the road, then raised her arm to point. "That way."

Thor's curiosity about what Fridur had just done went to war with his fear for Loki, and fear won. Fridur looked over her shoulder. "Try to keep up, Asgardian," she said, and then she was running barefoot through the streets of the city, her lacquered armor vanished in a blink of magic, and it was all Thor could do to keep her in sight as he sprinted after her. She followed a narrow track that only she could see, or perhaps feel; he caught up by a half-dozen strides when she stopped herself, skidding, to make a sharp turn near the edge of a hill. Then she was off again, loping with a lean efficiency that looked effortless and left Thor panting to match it. They descended through the city and into one of the small, almost self-contained hamlets along the water; a chill breeze sent Thor's cape rippling around him. Fridur slowed to a trot, then turned sharply and disappeared between a pair of buildings. When Thor caught up with her, breathing heavily, she was making clucking noises to a horse still in the traces of a small cart.

"Not bad," Fridur said, her voice low. She looked sideways at Thor, who was bent over panting, and smiled as she rubbed the horse's nose. "Only a handful of my honor guard do as well."

Before he could reply, she walked over and plucked her boots from his grasp. She bent over to pull them on, not a single hair disarranged from under her scarf. Thor, given the dearness of his breath at the moment, decided not to waste it on trading quips. "Where's Loki?"

She tipped her head to the side. "One of these. There's windows 'round back."

Thor left Fridur to finish putting on her boots. Thick-paned windows were spaced widely across the back of the building; he passed over two dark windows and looked cautiously through a third. The building was a peak-roofed, open-raftered tavern of a rustic design; inside, solid benches and tables that normally filled the single open room had been pushed to the sides, leaving a space open in front of a massive stone hearth. Space for a single, hanging object.

Stripped, dangling by his wrists, his body a mottled blue-purple-black: Thor noticed the metal bars resting with their ends in the fire, and understood. His little brother hung only a stride from the hearth, the flickering light playing across the burns that stippled him from shoulders to calves. _You torture a frost giant with fire._

Figures moved in the darkness farthest from the great hearth. They looked like Aesir and wore parts of the royal livery—the heat of the room evidently had led them to shed some of their clothing—but their eyes flashed red in the firelight. Among them was a single giant: blue-skinned, at least eight feet tall, wearing a leather skirt and sitting on a table like it was a bench. It let out a laugh that rattled the glass in the window, then stood.

"Well, I see how you missed that lot, but not her," Fridur said. She glanced through the window, then squatted with her back to it, her lacquered armor on again, a long knife in one hand. "Plan?"

"Kill them all," Thor growled. Mjölnir hummed in his hand, keen for battle. Fridur looked at him sidelong.

"There _are_ seven of them. Mostly undersized, but still."

"I'll leave you one or two."

Fridur's eyes narrowed. "Thor. If this was a simple brawl, I'd laugh and lay a bet on which of us could kill more of these ice jackals. But your brother is in there, helpless. If even one of them escapes us, even for a moment . . ."

Thor breathed deeply, forcing back the red rage that made his every muscle strain toward battle. She was right. As much as he wanted to smash every one of them to bloody pulp for laying hands on his little brother, he could not expect himself and Fridur to hold off three and four giants each.

"You circle to the main door," he growled. "I'll come through the side and take any between me and Loki. The rest are yours." He swallowed. "If they run . . . let them." He glanced through the window again. The giant had stood and was addressing its followers in the Jotun tongue—saying something that pleased them, given their toothy expressions. "None touch Loki again."

She rose and drew her jian. "None touch Loki again," she agreed, then she was walking away, a blade gleaming in either hand. _We're coming, brother,_ Thor promised, then glanced through the window again, meaning to give Fridur time to reach the main door of the tavern.

The giant closed in on Loki, an ice blade gleaming in its hand. The others followed, anticipation on their faces. Loki lifted his head at their approach. Despite his battered face, despite his red eyes, Thor recognized his brother's expression, and panic electrified his body. "No!" he roared, the wall between him and his brother exploding with a single swing of Mjölnir.

The Jotuns turned toward him as a mass. The giant recovered quickest, snarling a command that sent the rest of the disguised frost giants surging toward Thor. He batted two away before a third grappled with him, wrapping her arms around Thor's waist and squeezing the breath out of him. He smashed his elbow into her face, barely noticing her yowl of pain or the sting of her teeth on his arm: the giant had not joined the fight. " _No!_ " he howled as it raised its ice blade and reached for Loki. Across the room, the main doors exploded inward, drawing the attention of the other Jotuns; as Fridur joined the fight, Thor's path to the giant cleared, but it was too late. He drew his arm back to throw Mjölnir, despair and rage mixing in his heart: the giant's blade would fall before his hammer could reach its target.

But his trickster little brother wouldn't die so easily.

From some buried reserve of strength, Loki curled his arms and lifted his legs and kicked the giant squarely in the chest. It was a small enough blow—barely adequate to stagger the giant—but it interrupted the arc of the monster's stab. The knife-blow missed.

Mjölnir did not.

The frost giant crashed through the wall of the tavern and landed in the street. Thor called the hammer back. "Run," he growled to the startled Jotuns, and the two who were still upright did, fleeing through the hole in the wall. Thor didn't wait to see if they went to the giant's aid.

Loki raised his bloody, swollen face; one small, halting movement from a body that dangled so limply that it was painful to observe. Thor reached for him. Loki jerked away from his touch and mumbled. Thor felt a flash of hurt before he looked more closely at his brother, the regular pattern of injury on his brother's mouth suddenly resolving itself: someone had sewn Loki's mouth shut. He raised his eyes to meet his brother's red gaze. Loki's expression was exhausted and despairing and defiant all at once. Thor reached for him again, and Loki tried to avoid his touch again, repeating his close-mouthed _murrrr._

_The old hunter._ Loki thought Thor would be frostbitten if he touched Loki's Jotun form. The realization fell like a watery ray of winter sunlight on Thor's heart: _Loki didn't want him hurt_. "It's all right, brother," Thor said, and laid his hand on his brother's head, his thumb crossing Loki's forehead, before Loki could move away again. "Just hold still."

The cold of his brother's skin bit Thor's fingers at first. Thor gritted his teeth and called on the magic he had demanded of Odin after Loki's fall, and slowly the warmth returned to his hand, then to the skin beneath. Blue lightened and was replaced by a paler version of Thor's ruddiness. The hellish light faded from his brother's eyes and was replaced with familiar green.

Like most magic, the workings of the spell to give Loki the appearance of an Aesir were complicated, but they could be simplified: if you loved someone, you could lend them something of yourself. Thor knew the spell was only directed at appearances, but as it spread over Loki's body, paradoxically rendering the wounds he'd suffered twice as livid in their contrast with his pale skin, he wished, with all the heart of a child's wish, that he could give his brother some of his strength, too.

Thor smoothed his brother's hair as the spell neared completion. "Only the caster of this spell can lift it, brother," Thor whispered. "And I promise I will never, ever take it away from you."

He looked up at the rope binding Loki's hands so that they could both pretend their eyes were dry. He let go of his brother just long enough to take a knife from the body of an unstirring frost giant, then reached up and cut the rope. Loki collapsed instantly, so quickly that Thor had to bend his knees and wrap his arms around his brother to keep him from hitting the ground. For a moment, he embraced Loki as they had not embraced since they were boys, and Thor was reminded of his brother's slimness, of the narrow back and delicate ribs beneath the bloodslick the frost giants had made. He knelt, keeping his brother close, and balanced Loki's weight against his chest so that he could saw at the bonds tying his brother's hands together. Fridur appeared at the edge of Thor's vision. Blood made streamers along the edge of her jian.

"Trying to use that piece of junk Jotun blade?" She flicked the jian and sent a spray of red into the corner, leaving the metal mostly dry. "Hold his hands out."

Thor looked up. Fridur was breathing heavily, her eyes open wider than usual. She raised an eyebrow when she noticed Thor staring. "Or we can wait for the rest of Asgard to arrive while you saw through that wire. You might not have made enough noise for them to hear in the castle, after all."

Thor looked at Loki. "Brother," he said. His little brother lifted his head with effort, his expression weary. "Fridur is a friend. Will you trust her to release you?"

It was a relief to read the tiny changes in his brother's face as clearly as words: _Do you trust her?_ Thor nodded. Loki swallowed, then raised his hands, the muscles of his arms rippling with the effort.

The jian _clacked_ when it hit the wires that had wound around Loki's wrists, and Loki's hands sprang apart. They went immediately to his mouth, pulling so violently at the stitches that the dark scabs layered around his lips broke into new bleeding. "Stop, stop," Thor hissed, and lifted his hand, meaning to show Loki that he would cut the stitches in a moment. His brother snatched the knife and sliced wildly at the stitches, adding a new wound to his lip before Thor could wrest it out of his grasp. Loki plucked at his mouth with his long, clever fingers, letting out a noise that was something between a whine and a growl when Thor tried to stop him. Thor winced as his brother's clumsy handling painted his lips in blood, but after a few seconds, Loki could open his mouth fully. He took a few long, gasping breaths, then simply sat there, panting.

"Brother?" Thor asked.

Loki turned his head slowly. His eyes were wide and fixed, great white staring circles in a face that was blood from the mouth down and swollen, misshapen flesh from the nose up. His mouth opened and closed once, as if miming words he had forgotten how to say; then a sound came out—a terrible, terrifying sound, a sound of breaking things. It was, Thor realized, a laugh.

"Brother?" Loki said, in a voice that sounded as painful as his burns looked, and the flutter of hope Thor felt at that word was crushed with the next ones out of Loki's mouth. "I'm not your brother, Thor." Loki smiled in a bloody mockery of happiness, and his eyes were wells of pain. "I'm not even Loki." He started to giggle, but within seconds, the giggles turned to sobs. Loki curled in on himself, his hands raised before his face in a gesture part protective and part self-comforting, his pale shoulders shaking. "I don't know who I am," he sobbed, then drew in a gasping breath and raised his head and looked at Thor, his face half-concealed by the fall of his matted hair, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarling rictus. " _I don't know who I am._ "

Thor wrapped both arms around Loki. "You're my brother and I love you," he growled, holding onto his shaking, hissing brother as if he could force love into Loki's bones. He curled one hand around the back of Loki's head and pressed cheek to ear, Loki's harsh breathing loud beside him. "I love you," he repeated fiercely, and said it again, and again, until the steel in his brother softened and broke and Loki leaned into him, leaned _on_ him, and Thor closed his eyes and felt dislodged tears streak his face.

His little brother.

His broken little brother.

He knew the moment couldn't last. He knew it _shouldn't_ last—that Loki needed a healer, that Fridur was waiting for them, that none of them could be discovered in this act of blatant treason without the direst of consequences—but he hated Fridur a little anyway when she squatted next to them, her arms full of blood-spattered gray cloth.

"He's not a naked frost giant anymore, but he's still naked, and you Aesir don't seem to make a habit of that," she said, and dumped the cloth on the floor. "Get dressed and get moving, boys."

Thor let go of Loki reluctantly. His brother swayed but held himself upright, eyes unfocused, head drooping, while Thor untangled a tunic and trousers from the heap. The tunic was mercifully simple in its practicality—servants didn't have other servants to help them dress, Thor supposed—and it was easy enough to fit Loki's arms through the soft woolen sleeves. The trousers were another matter.

Loki let out a long hiss as Thor helped him straighten his bare leg before him. The bones were out of alignment, and Loki's flesh had swollen around the break. Thor slit the leg of the trousers from the hem to the knee and bunched the remaining fabric in a ring so that it was easier to slip over Loki's foot. The muscles in Loki's throat corded as Thor finished dressing him.

"We can't move him without doing something about that leg," Fridur said.

"Like cutting it off?" Loki growled. He had closed his eyes; he opened them now. They glittered with pain and rage. "Do it."

"I meant stabilizing it," she said tartly. She held up her boots. "I hope you have small feet, Loki."

By unlacing the left boot, they were able to fit it over Loki's swollen foot and leg; instead of returning the laces to their eyelets, though, they tore the sleeves off a tunic and tied them over the leather. Fridur insisted on putting her other boot on Loki's uninjured leg—"Indulge my need for symmetry, I'm Alfar"—and then Fridur and Thor were looking at each other while Loki shivered between them. His face was white where it wasn't bloody. In both Thor and Fridur's expressions was the understanding that if the circumstances were anything but what they were, they would let Loki rest, at least, before moving him. But there were already shouts outside.

"Time to go, brother," Thor said, and slipped an arm under Loki's. Fridur took Loki's other side and they lifted him. He let out a single, quickly-stifled groan.

"The cart?" Thor suggested.

"The cart," Fridur agreed. Loki managed a few hops between them before Fridur and Thor cast a silent look of agreement in each other's direction, shifted their grip on Loki, and lifted him off his feet entirely. They carried him through the tavern's back door, into the alley, and around the corner to the cart. The horse flicked its ears at them, then back toward the Aesir carrying lights past the end of the alley between buildings. Shouts rose louder in the street.

They lifted Loki into the cart. "I'll drive," Thor said to Fridur. "I know the streets."

Fridur’s brows arched. “You? One of the most recognizable men in Asgard?”

Thor opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. The driver’s seat was a simple bench; the driver would be exposed to all who passed, and Fridur was right—most of Asgard knew him on sight. She might draw looks as an Alfar, but not nearly as many as Thor would. Fridur gestured to the back of the cart.

“I can find the gates to the city,” she said. “You keep your oh-so-pretty head down, and keep Loki quiet. This won’t be a pleasant ride.”

Thor climbed into the creaking cart. Loki lifted one fist in a weak imitation of triumph. "Road trip," he whispered as Thor sat next to him, his back to Fridur.

Thor glanced at Fridur—whose face showed as little comprehension as Thor felt—then set a hand on Loki's arm. "Yes, we're travelling by road, brother."

Fridur mounted the driver’s seat with feline grace and spoke to the horse in Alfar. The animal flicked its ears, then leaned into the traces. Thor wrapped his arm across his brother’s trembling shoulders and bent his head to hide his face, bringing his temple to rest against Loki’s.

"Hold on," he said, and then they were running: the heirs to two thrones and the outlaw, bound by friendship and love, racing for Loki's life through the predawn streets of Asgard.

_Gods give us speed._


	22. Chapter 22

Loki drank coffee under the shade of a canvas umbrella, watching the humans walk by completely unaware of the god in their midst. He'd stopped to acquire a new wardrobe on his way to the university, and now he lounged in pale-pink leggings of a pliable and close-fitting material, a black lace camisole, and a black jacket made of leather from an unfamiliar animal that nevertheless wrapped around his torso in a way that recalled his Asgardian hunting coat. The black heels that currently dangled from his feet brought him closer to his usual height.

"Another?" the server asked. Kate's instinct was to smile at him; Loki didn't.

"No," he said, and turned his attention back to the front of the library across the street. The server, who'd been attempting to court Loki with simpering smiles and fawning conversation since the moment Loki had sat down, left frowning. He was what Kate would have called "her type"—tall, lean, with a wide-open face, golden curls, and brilliant blue eyes—but Loki had other business to attend to.

And here it came, in the person of a brown-suited functionary hurrying toward the library. His head was bent, a frown on his face as he climbed the wide stone steps to the university library. Loki smiled. He'd seen the messages, then. His thoughts would be a seething mess of fear and anger and outrage and uncertainty; he would be sure that they were a prank, a cruel joke, but his love would make him irrational, would make him worry himself raw. Loki would have liked to let him simmer in his fear, to bring him to the perfect pitch of paranoia, but he didn't have time for that. Not with the threat of his brother's return hanging over his head.

He set down his cup, picked up Kate's bag, and left his sidewalk table. The heels lent his hips a sway that Kate would have found ungainly; Loki relished it, and enjoyed watching heads turn in his peripheral vision. He climbed the steps to the library and strode through the vestibule and the open lobby to the suite of rooms used by the library's officials. At the threshold, he paused, then proceeded with uncertain steps, letting the heels clack against the stone floor. He looked into the glass window of each room he passed, although he knew his prey was in the nearly-last office, and when he finally arrived there, he arranged Kate's features into a mixture of fear and hope before knocking at the door.

The archivist, Lindskold, sat with his back to the door and spoke as he turned. "Yes, can I—help you?" he asked, hesitating when he saw Loki. He'd gotten the message.

"I," Loki said, and licked Kate's lips. "I hope so." He used the higher tones of Kate's register and held her bag against her body with both hands. "I'm supposed to—get something from you. A package."

The man's face darkened. He rose from his chair and took a step toward Kate, a movement that would have been more intimidating if Kate hadn't been taller than him by nearly a hand. "Who are you? Are you the one who's been texting me? What kind of sick game do you think you're playing?"

Loki widened his eyes and shrank back, bringing his shoulders up and his head down. "Me? What—I'm not—" He looked to either side, as if checking for eavesdroppers, then gave Lindskold a pleading look. "Please, I'm just here to pick up a package, that's all."

"Was that you? Were you the one taking pictures of my son, you sick bitch?" Lindskold's hands were fists, and Loki had the distinct impression that if he'd been wearing a male form, Lindskold would have punched him by now. Loki shook his head frantically and edged a foot backward.

"I don't know what you're talking about—I've never—" he said, raising the pitch of his voice higher. Lindskold thrashed though the pocket of his jacket, then thrust his phone at Loki, showing him a photo of little boy on a playground.

"That's my son. Those are the clothes I dressed him in this morning. Do you get some kind of perverted thrill out of this? Taking pictures of kids and threatening their parents? What do you want, money? I won't give it to you. I ought to call the police right now—"

"No, please!" Loki said, dropping Kate's bag and lifting his hands in a pleading motion. "Please, you can't, you can't call the police. They—" It was tricky to get Kate's voice to break on command—he was much better with his own—but he managed. "They have my husband," he finished, voice raised to a grating whine. The mortal, presented with supplication instead of threat, hesitated.

If Loki had wanted to kill him, he would have done so now. Instead, he made his hands shake as he lifted the flap of Kate's bag, then pulled out a square of tissue. He unwrapped it and presented it and its blood-smeared contents: a simple gold band. He would have preferred a finger for this particular prop, but on short notice, the ring had been an easier substitution.

"My God," the archivist said, staring at the bloody tissue.

"I told them I didn't believe they had him. I told them I'd go to the police. Then . . . I got this, dropped in my mailbox, fifteen minutes later." Loki thrust it at the archivist and hissed, " _They were watching me._ "

The man's mouth had dropped open. He lifted his eyes from the ring and Loki saw the moment that he translated _bloody ring_ into whatever equivalent horror might be visited on his child. "Who?" he asked, his rage buried beneath his fear. "Who did this? Who's threatening our families?"

Kate's eyes didn't want to water on cue, but he contorted her face as if she was barely holding back sobs. "I don't know," he said. "Russians? Georgians? All I want is my husband back. I don't care who they are, I don't care what they want, I just want my _husband._ "

Loki risked letting his voice rise to a near-wail with the last word and was rewarded by the archivist's reaction: a paranoid glance at the hallway, followed by a quick move to shut the door. He put his hand on Kate's shoulder and steered her toward an empty chair near his desk. "Shh, now," he said, then thudded into his own chair. His face flickered through abject fear to panic to resolution. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "What—what did they tell you? What did they say you had to do?"

Loki sniffled and rubbed his eyes until they watered. Lindskold fumbled through his desk drawers until he found a tissue and handed it to him. Loki dabbed at manufactured tears. "They said I was supposed to come here. That you'd have a package for me, and I'd have to deliver it to a certain address before noon today." He started, and Lindskold correctly inferred what he wanted and held out a calming hand.

"It's not eleven yet," he said, then frowned. "Did they tell you what you're supposed to deliver?"

Loki shook his head. "Just that I was supposed to pick up a package that you'd have for me, and I wasn't supposed to ask any questions." He widened his eyes. "You have it, right? What they want?" He leaned his fist on the desk, still clutching the crumpled tissue. "Oh, God, tell me you have it—please tell me you have it, whatever they want . . ."

"It's not that simple," Lindskold said, raising his hands. Loki leaned across the desk before he could blather on.

" _They have my husband_ ," he said, infusing the words with anger. "They are _watching_ your son. I don't care if it's not simple!" He raised Kate's eyebrows and opened her eyes. "Is it money? Is that what you're supposed to give them? I can help—we don't make much, but I could get a few thousand kronor right away—maybe together—"

Lindskold shook his head. "It's not money they want. It's—it's something that doesn't belong to me. An artifact owned by the university."

Loki frowned in mock-puzzlement. "An artifact? Like a crown or a necklace—?"

Lindskold kept shaking his head, his brows drawn down in frustration. "No. It's a dagger. An old dagger." He looked up at Loki, his fear momentarily subsumed by a look of complete confusion. "It's practically worthless—it's got no historical significance and no special value. No one's even looked at it for years."

Loki nearly ruined all his hard work by laughing at Lindskold's idiocy. Fortunately, he was able to turn his amusment into an expression of hopeful eagerness. "But that's good, isn't it? If it's worthless, then no one will care if it goes missing!"

Lindskold frowned again, and Loki resisted the urge to grab the back of the man's head and slam it against the desk until his face was pulp. _Give me the knife, you sniveling worm,_ he wanted to say. But violence wasn't an available choice; he'd decided that on the airplane. Kate's body was healthy enough for a mortal, and given time, he could train and tweak it to near-Asgardian strength, but at the moment, its usefulness was its femaleness: like an apparently empty hand concealing a knife, Loki would be underestimated in this body, in this persona of the terrified wife.

Of course, there was still the opportunity to test Kate's strength if he couldn't get the archivist to hand over the knife willingly.

As he considered the exact kind of torture he would apply to the mortal, the man stood. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered, then opened a desk drawer and took out a padded envelope. He tucked it under his arm, took a set of keys from another drawer, and cast a worried look at Loki, who had the presence of mind to shape Kate's face into an expression of anxious hope. "This is mad, you know that? We should be going to the police."

"I'm going to," Loki said, drawing Kate's brows down in a resolute look."I've saved all the messages, and I'm going to go to the police after this." He swallowed. "But not until I get my husband back."

The archivist sighed deeply, then said, "All right, come along," and opened the door of his office. Loki followed closely, clenching his teeth against a grin of triumph as the mortal strode down the hallway to a door that led to a set of stairs. They descended two levels, into a subbasement where lights flickered on as they entered, illuminating rows and rows of metal shelves holding plain white cardboard boxes. The archivist took a piece of paper from his pocket and consulted it, then led them down the aisle, along a cross-aisle, and, several rows down, to a box on the end of a row of shelves. He double-checked the number, then took the box off the shelf, set it on the floor, and squatted to open it. Inside, nestled on a bed of cloth-covered foam, was the dagger.

It was a simple symmetric blade only a little longer than Kate's hand, with a pair of grooves down the center; narrow, with straight edges and a sharp point. The grip was small and rounded, the ricasso an unadorned bar to protect the hand. Bigger than his own knives, Loki thought, but not showy; it was made to blend in, to look like any other commoner's knife. A quiver of anxiety ran through him. What if it wasn't the seventh blade? What if this was simply some stupid bit of mortal ironwork with nothing to recommend it?

He hadn't planned on touching the knife, but now he reached for it, startling the archivist, and as soon as his hand closed over the leather-wrapped handle, he could feel the magic. It hummed, prickling his skin, as if it could tell there was an Asgardian hiding in this Midgardian form. Forgetting his company, he smiled. _Thanos, you toad-faced thug, come and challenge me now._

"Um?" the archivist said. Loki looked at the man. He was holding out the padded envelope, confusion on his face. Loki dropped the knife inside, reluctantly, and formed his eyebrows into a simpering arch of gratitude.

"Thank you—thank you so much," he said breathlessly. He snatched the envelope out of the archivist's hands and clutched it to Kate's chest, between her breasts. "I'm supposed to go to a place on Alrunegatan—I know we should call the police, but—" He gave the archivist his best cow eyes. "You'll give me a few hours, won't you? Just until I get my husband back? Just until I know he's safe?"

He managed a satisfying quiver on the last word, and was relieved to see the burgeoning suspicion in Lindskold's eyes turn soft and sympathetic. The mortal dropped his chin and shook his head. "Of course, of course," he said. He kept speaking after that, but Loki ignored him and rose. Moving swiftly, he left the subbasement by the way the archivist had brought him, then ducked into an empty office and hid behind the door. A simple spell filled the hallway with the clack of his shoes so that when the archivist came through the door, a frown on his face, he didn't even hesitate to look for Loki—he followed the sound.

Loki waited a moment, then stepped out of the heels and carried them in his hand until he'd left the offices and exited the library building by the back doors. Heels back on, he tucked the envelope in Kate's bag and began to walk. _Gullible mortals_ , he thought, and savored the success of his plan.

Once he'd realized that Kate's phone could give him access to the mortals' "web" of information, he'd used it on the airplane to fill in the unspeakably skeletal outlines of plan that Kate's memories had contained: he'd located the building that the knife was stored in, identified the mortal who could give him access to it, and determined the man's weaknesses. Love, as was so often the case, proved the easiest lever: Lindskold and his husband had a son whom they photographed incessantly. As soon as Loki had landed and talked his way through customs in Stockholm, he'd travelled to Uppsala, then purchased what Kate called a "burner" phone with the proceeds of a bit of pickpocketing on the train from Stockholm to Uppsala. The phone had a built-in device to collect and transfer images; he'd travelled to the school where Lindskold's son attended, then sent the images to Lindskold along with several threats and instructions to locate the knife and give it to a messenger who would appear for it. Messages sent, he'd purchased a new wardrobe along with his prop-ring, then settled in to wait for his prey.

A taxi approached. Loki waved it to the curb, then climbed inside. "Train station," he said. The vehicle moved away from the curb and Loki settled into the seat, one hand flattened protectively over Kate's bag.

_Gullible_ wasn't the same as _complete and utter fool_ ; sooner or later, Lindskold would contact the mortal authorities, and at that point, Loki wanted to be well away from Uppsala. Perhaps away from Sweden as well, although the country reminded him, in small, pleasing ways, of Asgard: in the pronunciation of certain words and the layout of the streets and in the architecture of the oldest buildings.

Loki watched the storefronts passing. Perhaps, though, Sweden's resemblance to Asgard was exactly the reason he shouldn't stay: it was a poor imitation of Asgard, a copy based on memories of a few moments' glances at Asgard's glory, destined to taunt him with all the ways he was out of place. A reminder with every round syllable and half-sized arch that his kingdom—yes, _his_ kingdom—was in the hands of the liar Odin and the idiot Thor.

Loki's hand smoothed the bag and came instinctively to rest over the handle of the knife, despite the cloth and paper separating them. He could send Odin beyond the reach of the Odinsleep with the knife. He could slit pretty Thor's pretty throat. He had cherished the fear in the eyes of the mortals in Stuttgart when he walked among them in his true form; he could command the same fear in Asgard. They'd finally respect him.

That still left Thanos and the Chitauri.

He caressed the knife through the fabric of the bag without thinking, tracing handle and blade and back. He'd kept an eye on mortal information-gathering apparatuses through Kate's phone, then his. Though Barton's explanations and Kate's memories both suggested that SHIELD could suppress information, since the Chitauri invasion, it had become nearly impossible for SHIELD to control what the world knew about the Avengers—and about Thor. There were simply too many voices to hunt down—which meant that if the mortals hadn't noticed that Thor had returned, then likely, he hadn't returned.

Nearly two full days had passed since he'd traded bodies with Kate. It had been almost a full day since Thor had used the Tesseract to take Kate back to Asgard with him. Loki had assumed Kate would be found out quickly—though she had access to his memories, she would have been, at best, a pale imitation of himself—but perhaps she was a better actress than he'd given her credit for. Or perhaps she was dead.

"Is there a problem?" the driver asked hesitantly. Loki looked up and caught a glimpse of himself in the woman's mirror.

"Sorry," Loki said, flashing half a smile. "Having a bit of a time with my boyfriend. Just thinking about his ugly mug."

The driver sighed in relief and began chattering about her last thousand and one relationships. Loki ignored them, letting Kate's face droop into vapid agreement as he retreated into his thoughts.

Odin could have ordered him executed. If Loki had been Odin, that's what he would have done. Two sons fed on lies—one about his past, one about his fitness to rule—could not exist in the same kingdom; not when one had tasted rule and the other had been promised it. Loki's right to assume the throne during the Odinsleep, his motives for keeping Thor on earth and trapping Laufey and attempting to destroy Jotunheim, Odin's complicity in all of it—all could be twisted into a story about the greedy graspings of a frostling and the righteous return of the chastened first son, the story of a traitor who would have to be executed for his crimes. The Aesir would believe it; he'd only ever been Thor's shadow to them.

Darkness unfurled long wings in his heart. Who would have objected to Loki's execution? _Frigga_ , he thought immediately; then, reluctantly, _Thor._ _Perhaps._ Though there had been something in his brother's eyes when they met on Stark's tower—a grief and a rage that were darker than anything he'd seen in his brother's eyes before—that made him doubt himself.

Kate could be dead, her mind gone along with Loki's body.

His nails scraped the fabric of Kate's bag as his fingers curled into a fist. The thought of his body being destroyed made him angry, no matter that—logically—it would ensure his freedom, as long as he didn't draw attention to himself.

He barely managed to keep his expression of neutrality from devolving into a snarl. _As long as he didn't draw attention to himself._ He, the rightful king of Asgard, was reduced to imagining how he might go unnoticed, sneaking along the edges of the Nine Realms like a thief, hiding in this _ridiculous_ body.

The taxi halted. He looked up and found the driver staring at him, eyes uncertain. He fished several notes out of Kate's bag and thrust them at the driver, then shoved open the door and stepped out, too annoyed with everything around him to speak. He strode into the station and bought a ticket for the next train to Arlanda.

He was done with this crude imitation of Asgard. He would take the next flight out, no matter where it led. Perhaps he'd return to New York; perhaps he'd go elsewhere. It didn't matter. The important thing was that he needed time to think; to plan. Asgard would pay for rejecting him, and if Kate was dead, he would punish them for that, too.

Loki stood on a corner of the platform and waited, the seething cauldron of his thoughts turning his eyes threatening—and blind. A hundred feet away, an Uppsala police officer checked her phone. The detective had responded to her quickly-sent photograph. _Witness confirms subject is woman who contacted him_. _Follow, but do not approach._

The half-hour train pulled into the station. Officer McGrath watched to see which carriage her subject entered, then waited until the last possible moment before entering the next carriage back. She held the overhead rail with one hand and watched the subject from the corner of her eye as she texted. _On train to Arlanda. Subject is on third carriage from front._

McGrath sent the message and let her hand drop to her side, still holding the phone. Within seconds, it buzzed. _Notify if subject leaves train. Response force being assembled at SkyCity._

_Understood_ , she sent back, then dropped her cell phone into her pocket. She leaned into the sway and roll of the train and watched the subject through the windows of the carriage.

_Got you, bitch,_ she thought.


	23. Chapter 23

Thor watched the dawn-lightening streets they passed with trepidation. Fridur had chosen to drive the cart at a leisurely pace to avoid attention and to lessen the strain on the animal in the traces; so far, they had gone unnoticed, but that would become more difficult as the streets lightened and began to fill with Aesir. _And what will we do once we leave the city?_ Thor asked himself. Loki needed a healer, not wilderness.

As if in acknowledgement of that fact, Loki stirred and immediately hissed, grimacing as one of his many wounds was tested. He had drifted in and out of consciousness as they drove, the pain of his injuries periodically shaking him out of his exhausted daze. A sliver of green appeared between his eyelids, opening to a confused look.

"We're nearly there, little brother," Thor said, and tried to smile. "Stay with me a little longer."

Loki blinked. The confusion faded, to be replaced with a bitterness that scraped at Thor's heart. “I’m not your brother,” Loki rasped, scabbed lips barely moving. “I’m not even from this planet.” He coughed, and a soundless snarl curled his lip after. He closed his eyes again as he spoke. "I keep trying to tell you that."

_You are my brother,_ Thor wanted to say. _You are my brother and you'll always be my brother, no matter what you were born, no matter what you do._ He held Loki’s unwounded hand, his other arm wrapped across his brother’s shoulders. Loki’s breathing was harsh, his skin even colder than usual. His hair smelled of smoke and blood and cooked meat. Thor let go of Loki’s hand to smooth his hair back from his face, holding his hand against Loki’s cheek for a moment as the cart thudded over an uneven place in the road. Here, where bruises blackened Loki’s skin, was the only warmth in his brother: the heat of blood broken free. A memory made him smile.

“Do you remember the day we argued over the proper way to hunt a deer?” he asked. He ran his thumb along the edges of the bruise before taking Loki’s hand again. “I called down a storm for the first time. I was so startled by it that you punched me in the face. We came home mud from head to toe. Mother scolded us for the mess.”

Loki sighed and let his head loll back. “And Father was proud of you,” he said. He swallowed, sending a ripple along his bruise-blackened neck. “Thor the Thunderer.” He grimaced, and his whole body tensed for a moment.

“Brother?” Thor asked, worried by the look of pain on Loki’s face.

He opened his eyes. They were wet with tears. “I’m not him,” Loki hissed. “I don’t want to be him . . . except with you.” There was blood on his teeth that hadn't been there before. His hand tightened on Thor’s, and Thor held back the reassurances that perched on his tongue. “You never give up on him. Ever. You never leave him behind.” Loki swallowed, his eyes rolling to meet Thor’s, an unfamiliar supplication in them. “We were counting on that. But then you muzzled me. I couldn’t tell you who I really was. Couldn’t tell you what we did.”

The cart stopped abruptly and Loki let out a noise that was part hiss and part growl. Thor restrained the questions he wanted to loose on Loki—what did he mean by talking of himself in the third person? Why was he acting so strangely?—and looked to Fridur.

"The gates are ahead," she said, her voice low. "They're barred. And guarded."

Thor lifted his arm from Loki and shifted in the cart until he could see where Fridur was looking. The city gates—always open, except in times of war—were closed, the massive counterweights turned to lock them in place. A dozen city guards stood in a loose line before it, facing Asgard. The first light of morning began to paint the top of the gate.

Hunters and forest-foragers waited a dozen feet from the guards. The gate would open for them eventually, but Thor couldn't count on that happening before he, Loki, and Fridur were discovered in the street. They could conceal themselves among the hunters, but they would need Loki's illusion for that.

Thor glanced at his brother, his heart sinking. Loki's eyes were closed again, his body limp against the back of the cart, although there was some small tension in him that suggested he wasn't unconscious again. Loki could barely walk, could barely stay conscious for more than a few minutes; it seemed unlikely that he could weave enough illusion to hide one person, much less three.

"They closed the gates, didn't they." His brother spoke before Thor could. A smile curled the end of his mouth, and his chin trembled. "I got to the fucking wall, Loki. You didn't think I could do it, did you? Stupid mortal bitch. Couldn't go five blocks. _Well, I did it,"_ he hissed.

Fridur turned in her seat and Thor exchanged a glance of alarm with her before reaching for Loki. His brother's eyes were closed; this had to be some dream, some hallucination—

Loki's eyes opened before Thor could touch him. They were bright and wide with madness, focused on things Thor could not see. "You said I could get out if I got to the wall. Tell me how, you lying shit, or you're never getting this body back."

“Loki?” Thor said, but his brother didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead, his eyes widened as if something fearful approached, then he smiled—a smile that lasted only a fraction of a second before reversing itself into a tremble-lipped look of horror.

“That’s all?” Loki whispered. “Give up myself? Give up who I am? Hope you can—can put what’s left of me back together?” He paused, his mouth still open, his eyes fixed, as if he was listening, then smiled, in an expression that was as much grimace as smile. “Right. Or I can die. Of course.”

“Brother, are you—” Thor cut himself off when Loki raised his hand, fingers trembling, to signal him to wait. Loki had closed his eyes; he swallowed and opened them again, then looked directly at Thor.

“My name is Kate Sullivan,” he said, his voice calm and even, his gaze unwavering. “I live in Albany, New York. I traded bodies with Loki after he stabbed you. Right now, he’s supposed to be in Uppsala, Sweden, finding a knife that will kill Thanos. He led the Chitauri to Earth to protect Asgard, but that was only part of their force. They’ll come for Asgard. You have to find the knife, and find Loki, and stop them.”

The words were madness, but so calmly delivered, with such an earnest face, that Thor didn’t object. Loki put his hand on Thor’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I’ll live through this or not, but if I don’t . . .” Despite the shaking of his arm, he squeezed Thor’s shoulder with enough force to make his armor protest. “Kill that fucking toad-faced son of a bitch.”

“Loki, I don’t understand,” Thor said, searching his brother’s face desperately. Loki smiled lopsidedly, and for one brief and beautiful moment, Thor saw his little brother—the brother he’d thought lost a year ago, the brother who’d teased him before his coronation, the brother he had trusted at his side for a millennium.

“You don’t have to understand,” Loki said. “Just find her. Find me.” The smile slipped from his face as he let go of Thor, and Thor had the horrible premonition that Loki was letting go of more than his shoulder.

“Loki, wait,” he said, but his brother ignored him. His half-shut eyes rolled white and a shiver ran through his body as he inhaled sharply, then gave a long, slow sigh. When he opened his eyes again, it was as if a different man looked out from them.

“Thor,” he said. He rolled his eyes toward Fridur, then back. “And friend.” A smile laced with cruelty lifted his lips. “Have you moved on from the mortal, then? Or do you plan to keep a woman in each of the Nine Realms? Jane, Sif, this Alfar bitch . . . if you mean to take a bride among the frost giants as well, I’m certain my sister Gerd would be willing to entertain your suit. She’s homely enough to look at, but her ambition surely matches yours.”

If the Loki who’d sat before him a moment ago was the Loki before the Bifrost, the little brother he loved, then this was the Loki who’d taunted him and his friends from the helicarrier, the Loki who had killed Coulson, the Loki who had released the Hulk’s cage with him in it. Before Thor could rebuke him, he’d grabbed Thor by the throat, his slender fingers wrapping him from carotid to carotid. Fridur drew her knife and laid it at his throat—but it wasn’t Loki’s throat she was holding her knife to. It was a grizzled hunter, his stubbled face shadowed by a hood, his scratched and mended leathers fragrant with sweat and old wine. Thor’s hands, wrapped defensively around Loki’s arm, were encased in archery gloves; the weight of a bow and quiver rested across his back. Even Fridur had been altered: her lacquered armor become boiled leather, an axe at her waist where her sword had been, her face marred by a pair of claw-scars.

“Let’s be on with it, then,” Loki said. He let go of Thor’s throat, slapped Fridur’s hand away as she gaped at the transformation that had been worked on them, and shoved himself to the end of the cart. For a moment, even Thor—who’d seen the break, who’d shouldered Loki’s weight—forgot about Loki’s broken leg and expected him to jump from the cart and begin strolling toward the gates.

He slid from the cart and in a second his appearance of strength dissolved: he stumbled, only his grip on the end of the cart keeping him from falling. Thor leapt to the ground and tried to help him, but Loki ducked away from him, still clinging to the cart.

“Stop, you fool. I have to be able to walk. The guards won’t believe in a crippled hunter or a pair of drunks going for a forest stroll,” Loki snapped, then bent to clutch at his calf. As his lips moved, the cart creaked, and Fridur joined Thor.

“Your brother’s mad,” she said, then held out her hand. Her elegant fingers were stubbled and short, marked by the white scars of a snare-maker. “And talented.”

“Good Fridur, please forgive his insolence—” Thor began, but Fridur waved her hand to quiet him and watched Loki intently.

“I think there’s more here than we yet understand,” she said, then grinned at Thor. “And even if there isn’t, he’ll be the one to eat his words, not you.”

“Enough banter,” Loki said, straightening. The face he’d overlaid on his own was familiar; it took a moment for Thor to place it, then anger rose, molten, inside him. It was a mockery of Phil Coulson as a bearded Aesir hunter. “I can only hold this illusion for a time. Better that it fails outside the walls of Asgard than within. Come.”

Whatever magic he had worked on himself, it had given him the ability to walk on his broken leg, though with a limp; he set out down the street with an unsteady gait, not waiting for either of them to follow. Thor and Fridur hurried after him, leaving the cart and pony behind. "What is our plan, Thor?" Fridur asked. She glanced at his disguise, then at the group of hunters near the gate. "Are we to wait among the hunters and hide ourselves in their numbers, then?"

The light of the sunrise had reached halfway down the gate; still, the guards had made no move to open them. Loki had nearly reached the group. _It would be suspicious if all three of us arrived in a hurry at once._ Thor spread his fingers. Fridur caught the motion from the corner of her eye and they both slowed their steps. The hunters were talking among themselves, their shoulders slouched, their bodies open to each other, their gestures as they spoke wide and expressive. Some turned to look at Loki as he approached, and drew themselves up taller in curiosity and wariness.

_Of course_ , Thor realized. _They're hunters. This is their daily habit. They go out through the same gate every day, if not at the same time; they know each other._ He looked at the guards, heart pounding. _And no doubt the regular guards know them. If the usual guard complement is here, too, if they're watching and they recognize Loki as a stranger or if the hunters question him and he can't answer—_

He bit his tongue instead of shouting as Loki approached the hunters. But they didn't reveal him, because he didn't stop there. He walked straight up to the gate.

"What's he doing?" Fridur asked. Before Thor could answer, his little brother was shouting.

"What's this? Another gate closed? Still? I thought Asgard would be well lanced of that little pustule by now," Loki said. The hunters, who had followed Loki with their gazes as he passed by, let out a few guffaws. Loki limped straight to the guard captain. "Come on, yer worship, why shut the gates? D'you think the blue bastard's going to sneak by you?" Loki gave the rest of the guard a theatrical going-over, then said, loud enough to be heard by the hunters, "None of them look blind, though I could wonder about a few of their fathers."

A few more of the hunters laughed. Some of the guardsmen looked toward Loki, irritation in their eyes. Thor slowed his steps even further, staying away from the hunters, and Fridur imitated his change in pace. "Loki is either getting himself killed, or getting us out of Asgard," Thor said under his breath. Fridur glanced at him, then back at the scene.

"The gates will open when we say they open," the guard captain said, and pointed at the hunters, his other hand resting on his sword. "Wait with your fellows, or . . ." he gave Loki's illusion a scornful once-over ". . . crawl back into your wine stoup."

Loki turned away, but not to retreat: he puffed up his chest, frowned, and took two marching steps toward the hunters before dropping the mockery and saying, in a false whisper, "I'd rather crawl back into his mother's bed."

The hunters laughed; the captain gave Loki an angry look and started toward him, but stopped when Loki spun on his heel. "Tell me, did the Allfather order the gates closed? Come to his senses about letting that viper belly his way out of Asgard?" Loki made a dismissive slithering motion with his hand, then clenched it into a fist. "He ought to have crushed the Liesmith as soon as the prince brought him back."

"Do you challenge the Allfather's judgment?" the captain said, drawing himself up. At those words, hunters and guards alike sucked in their breath. Loki didn't even flinch.

"Never," he said. "Therefore, the gates?"

The captain opened his mouth, but caught himself before he spoke. The hunters elbowed each other, realizing the trap Loki had set: the captain had ordered the gates closed on his own authority; if he admitted that, he was admitting that he'd gone against the Allfather, whose standing decree was to keep the gates open at all times. The guards stirred, their hands sliding toward ready position on their spears. Thor set his hand on Mjölnir, preparing himself to wade into the middle of a riot.

Loki tipped his head back and rolled his eyes, seemingly oblivious. "The Allfather stripped Loki of his magic," he said. "He's a runt of a frost giant, but that doesn't mean he'll be hard to find. He's uglier than that poor bastard's mother" he nodded at one of the guardsmen "and he'll turn everything he touches to ice. Just listen for screaming women—it'll either be one of them courting . . ." he tipped his head toward the hunters behind him, to snickers from the guards, " . . . or the horsefucker crawled out of whatever stable he's been hiding in since he was vomited out of the castle."

The captain started to turn to the guards, stopping himself mid-motion with a tight-lipped look of discomfort. Loki turned, spreading his arms to include both guards and hunters, and looked in the direction of the gate. "Are you afraid? Is that it? Afraid of the coward of Asgard? The magician? The bookling trickster who cheats with illusion rather than be honestly defeated?" He turned to the hunters. "Come on, brothers. What are you standing about for? Our friends the guardsmen need our _help_." A cruel light burned in Loki's eyes; his lip was drawn up in a sneer that looked doubly unnatural on Loki's borrowed face. "They're used to fighting _men._ We'll show them how to catch a carrion-chewing erafaz like Loki—and we'll string him up from the gates when we find him."

The hunters cheered. Half the guards checked themselves mid-lunge as the captain, eyes burning with fury, spun and waved his hand. "Open the gates," he shouted, and when his men hesitated, he swore at them and began striding in the direction of the guardhouse. The men closest stirred from their startled poses and within seconds, the gates were opening. The hunters gave a second, louder cheer.

"Out of the way," the captain snapped at his men, then glared at the hunters. "Out! All of you!" He jabbed a finger at Loki. "And especially you."

Loki bowed mockingly. The captain turned away before Loki rose, so he missed the moment that Loki's balance wavered. _It'll all come down right now_ , Thor thought, and started to run to Loki. _He'll fall. The illusion will break. And he'll be there, revealed, in the middle of an armed crowd that he's just whipped into a mob._

But Loki didn't fall: the hunters had started to move forward when the gates began to open, and one of them caught Loki by the shoulder before he could tumble to the ground. Loki bared his teeth at the man in a smile that turned into a grimace only Thor and Fridur could see when the man walked away. He stood with his back to the gates as Thor made his run-turned-fast-walk way toward him, the strain of his deception showing around his eyes. "Friends," he said, the word clipped with pain. "Shall we go?"

Thor grabbed Loki by the arm and spun him toward the gate. Two steps in, the captain blocked their path. Thor and Loki stopped short.

"Is he your friend?" he asked, pointing at Loki. Thor nodded and swallowed, wishing he'd taken hold of Loki with his left hand instead of his right. The captain glared at Loki, then at Thor. "Make sure he uses a different gate tonight."

Thor bobbed his head, holding in a sigh of relief, and gave Loki's arm a sharp jerk when his brother opened his mouth. Loki's teeth clicked together. "Let's go," Thor said.

"As you wish," Loki said. He let Thor lead him through the gates, limping, and across the cleared land that surrounded the wall. The guards were assiduous in their brush-clearing duties, so it was nearly fifteen minutes before they reached the beginnings of the forest. Thor felt as if he carried a target on his back the whole time.

As soon as they reached cover, Loki collapsed, slipping out of Thor's grasp. All three of the illusions that he had woven for them disappeared in an instant, and as Thor knelt by Loki's head and patted his cheek, he feared for a moment that it was because his brother was dead.

"The other hunters are gone, moved on," Fridur said, then stopped when she saw Loki. "Is he—"

Thor found a pulse throbbing under the scabbed and bruised skin of Loki's throat and closed his eyes for a second's prayer of thanks. "He's alive," he answered, and opened his eyes again. His brother's skin looked like unfired clay—gray, dull, and lifeless. Thor started to look up at Fridur, but his eye was caught by patches of discoloration on the uniform they'd dressed Loki in. He reached for one and realized what it was when Loki twitched without waking. The larger, deeper burns on his body were beginning to bleed through the cloth.

"Loki?" He shook his brother's shoulder, then leaned back on his heels. Fridur crouched across from him.

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

He wanted to pick Loki up, turn around, take Loki to the gates, and demand that Odin send healers for him. He wanted to shake Loki awake and question him until his brother explained himself—not just his mad mutterings before they approached the gate, but about his actions on Midgard; about what had happened to him after he fell from the Bifrost; about what had made him hate Thor so much that he was willing to lie and kill in order to exile Thor from Asgard. _Why, brother?_ He thought, looking at Loki's battered face. _Why did you do this to yourself?_

_Why did you try to kill me?_

"Thor."

He raised his head. Fridur's eyebrow made an inquiring arch. His hands curled into impotent fists. _First things first._ He wouldn't be asking Loki questions if Loki died.

The word made his thoughts stutter. _Loki dead._ No. Not his little brother—

"I have some training in field medicine," Fridur said. She was speaking more slowly than usual, leaning toward him. "Enough to make him comfortable. Keep him alive a few days. But if you want him whole, you're going to have to find real care for him." Her eyes slid in the direction of Asgard, then back to Thor. "I don't think you're going to find it here, and I won't take him to Alfheim. I like you, Thor, but I'm not starting a war over your brother."

"And I would not ask it of you," Thor said immediately. He felt a moment's guilt for lingering over his own, selfish needs, and tried to concentrate. It was difficult to do with the sound of Loki's ragged breathing in his ears.

"Your brother said something about Earth. Midgard."

Thor shook his head. "I fear my brother's mind wanders far afield," he said, but even as he spoke, the mention of Earth teased his thoughts— _Earth._ Not Midgard.

_He could have picked up the habit among the mortals_ , Thor justified to himself, but Loki had no love for the mortals—he'd made that abundantly clear.

"Perhaps it does. But what of your allies there? It's been centuries since I've visited, but surely their healing capabilities are at least as advanced as our field medicine," Fridur said, the doubt in her voice belying the confidence of her words. Thor thought of the place of healing that Jane had brought him to after Darcy had felled him. Their techniques and equipment had been unfamiliar, but their treatments had worked on him. He'd been mortal at the time, but still . . .

"They are capable," he said, and looked down at Loki. "The question is whether they would be willing."

Fridur pursed her lips. "I see your point."

What was it that Loki had said about Earth? _He led the Chitauri to Earth to protect Asgard_. Speaking of himself as if he wasn't Loki.

Thor looked down at his brother's hands. The fingers of his left hand had curled over his palm, but the cuff of his left sleeve had been dyed dark with blood. _I am not Loki,_ the words splashed desperately on the wall of his cell. _You muzzled me_. _I couldn't tell you who I really was._

Not-Loki.

_My name is Kate Sullivan. I live in Albany, New York._

New York.

"Thor," Fridur said, an edge of urgency and irritation in her voice. Thor lifted his hand and tried to tease free his knotted thoughts.

Loki's insistence that he wasn't Thor's brother. His strange outbursts. The blood on the wall. _I traded bodies with Loki._

_Find Loki._

He looked down at his brother—at the body of his brother. It didn't make sense, except . . . Loki was always playing tricks. Loki was always a step ahead.

_He led the Chitauri to Earth to protect Asgard._

Fridur said his name again but Thor didn't respond—he couldn't. He was too busy searching his every memory of the last five days, everything he knew about what Loki had done on Midgard. _On Earth._ Was there a chance—even the slightest chance—that his brother hadn't intended to succeed in conquering Earth? That his brother had _wanted_ to be defeated?

"What in Hel is going on?" he said to himself.

"I don't know, but you should be aware that open-mouthed gaping is not an attractive look for you, Odinson," Fridur said sharply. Thor blinked. The Alfar warrior was glaring at him. He closed his mouth.

Loki groaned and turned his head. "Loki?" Thor said, then his tongue stuck: what if the person before him really wasn't Loki? What if he hadn't been Loki since New York? What if the person Thor had brought to Asgard in chains—the person Odin had sentenced to be outlawed—the person the frost giants had kidnapped and tortured— _wasn't Loki?_

A glimmer of green appeared through slitted eyes. "Well, that was fun," he whispered, barely moving his lips. The green disappeared. "Wake me up when I'm dead."

Thor shook his brother's shoulder roughly. Loki hissed at him and opened his eyes. "Who are you?" Thor demanded.

Fridur gave him an incredulous look. A slow smile spread over Loki's face.

"I'm the horsefucker," he said. "The Liesmith. The trickster. The coward. Were the names new to you, Thor? Because they weren't new to me. They haven't been new for _centuries._ "

It wasn't until Loki's voice broke on the last word that Thor realized his brother was crying—smiling and crying, the smile turning, second by second, into a grimace of pain. Thor started to reach for his brother's face, then stopped, confused. Was this Loki or not? If it wasn't, how had he known the insults that had been thrown at Loki over the years? Thor swallowed, recalling Loki's act at the gates. His words had been cruel, his voicing of them poisonous. Had his little brother been imitating not only the words but the tone of Aesir he'd overheard?

Thor was so confused.

"Thor," Fridur hissed, grabbing his shoulder. "Stop painting clouds and _pay attention._ Your brother needs help. Do we seek it on Midgard, or do we find a less exposed place and attempt what we can?"

_Attempt what we can._ The bleakness of those words finally penetrated the confusion in Thor's mind. There would be no answers from Loki—or whoever this was—if he was dead. "Midgard," he said, and looked at Fridur. "But the Bifrost is still being repaired. And Loki—"

"The Bifrost is not the only way between realms, Aesir," Fridur said, rolling her eyes. "Did you forget how we traveled to Alfheim already?"

"You can travel to Midgard?" Thor said, astonished.

"The Aesir are not the only ones who enjoy sporting with mortals," Fridur said. She winked, then reached over and tapped Thor's chin. "Mouth."

His teeth clicked. Fridur looked down at Loki. "The trick is going to be moving you," she said. She chewed her lip, then reached for her belt.

"I can carry him," Thor said as she produced a knuckle-sized metal capsule.

"Won't work," she said, unscrewing a cap. "He needs to be awake, he needs to be standing. The science is complicated and we don't have time for me to explain it." She tapped the end of the capsule against her palm. A white tablet smaller than Fridur's smallest fingernail spilled out. She replaced the cap, tucked the metal capsule back in her belt, and held out the tablet. "Under your tongue," she said to Loki. "It'll dissolve quickly."

Thor grabbed Fridur's wrist. She gave him a furious look and he let go. "What are you giving my brother, good Fridur?" he asked.

"It's a stimulant," she said. "Perfectly safe. All our warriors carry it, even the ones with child. It will keep him awake and alert long enough to walk the path of stars. Unless you think he can work more sorcery to keep himself awake."

Her voice was sharp with impatience. Thor hesitated. Loki rolled his eyes.

"Stop acting like Frigga," he said. "You don't look nearly as good in a dress."

Before Thor could stop them, Loki opened his mouth and Fridur dropped the tablet in. Loki made a face as if the taste was bitter, then his eyes widened. Without warning, his back arched off the ground. He thumped back down, gasped, and sat up in one motion, then just panted.

"Loki? What was in that?!" Thor demanded of Fridur. The Alfar looked startled.

"I've never seen anyone react like that before," she said, and sniffed. "Guess you Aesir are a little more delicate than I thought."

"Delicate?" Loki rasped. "Feels like a horse kicked me in the chest."

"Well, in any case, it got you up," Fridur said sunnily, and clambered to her feet. "Let's get moving, shall we?"

Loki coughed and let Thor haul him to his feet, wavering. "Everything's too sharp," he muttered, looking around. "My heart's racing." He coughed again, grimacing. "Elf meth. I just took elf meth."

Something about the two words made Loki chuckle, then giggle, then laugh, until he was leaning against Thor and coughing, barely able to stand. Thor wrapped his arm around his brother’s waist and began to lead him after Fridur, who was walking deeper into the forest. Loki lifted his arm across Thor’s shoulders, bringing their bodies closer together, and leaned more of his weight on Thor. The small, familiar, trusting gesture broke Thor’s heart, because he knew then, with the fleeting certainty of intuition, that the person beside him wasn’t Loki: his brother would have rather crawled than accept help from Thor.

_I don’t know who you are,_ Thor thought, his throat closing with the need to weep, _but you have many questions to answer._

Then Thor let go of his certainty, and pretended. He pretended that he was certain Fridur’s magic would take them to Midgard without mishap. He pretended that his friends, the Avengers, would offer their help. He pretended that Loki’s injuries would be healed by Midgardian medicine. And he pretended that the man walking beside him was his brother and only his brother; that despite what had passed between them Loki still loved him; that the trust his brother now placed in him was not desperate, but honest. He pretended he was finally saving Loki, and the hope that his pretending would come true was a small, dull, flickering thing in his breast.


	24. Chapter 24

Halfway to Arlanda, Loki realized he was being watched.

The discovery had come in parts. First, he'd noticed the transit police officer patrolling one of the platforms at which the train stopped; then he'd realized the officer in the next car down wasn't wearing a transit officer's uniform; then he'd caught her glancing at him, then looking at her phone. He placed her as appearing on the train roughly at the same time as he had. Evidently, he'd allowed himself to be distracted by his earlier pique.

_Careless_ , he scolded himself, and when the officer was looking at the other end of the train, he slipped the burner phone with its incriminating messages into the briefcase of a commuter exiting the train. The ring dropped into a shoulder bag, wiped clean of blood, and the envelope was delicately tucked into the outer pocket of a rolling suitcase. The sleight-of-hand required the remainder of his time on the train, not allowing him a free moment to check Kate's bag for anything else that might incriminate him, but he'd been careful to discard the receipts for his purchases as he bought them, so that as he stepped from the train onto the platform at Arlanda and faced a half-dozen uniformed police, he was reasonably certain that he had nothing on him that the mortal authorities could use to hold him.

Other than the knife, of course.                    

The police were far more polite while taking Loki into custody than Kate's memories had led him to expect. "Excuse me, miss, but I'd like you to come with me, please," the nearest officer said, holding out her hand in a manner that managed to be both inviting and commanding. Loki raised Kate's eyebrows, then pulled them together in a frown of incomprehension.

" _I'm sorry, I don't speak Swedish_ ," he said, in English. He looked theatrically at the other officers, then back at the one who'd addressed him, deepening Kate's expression of worry. " _Is there a problem?_ "

" _You will come with me, please_ ," the officer said, switching to English. She repeated her hand-held-out gesture, and Loki made a show of looking around worriedly as he edged toward her.

" _Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong? What's going on?_ "

The officer who'd taken the lead glanced at the one who'd been following Loki; she'd stepped off the train, and now she nodded. The lead officer moved toward Loki. His instinct was to draw the knife, kill these two, and use illusion to distract the rest while he escaped, but he forced himself to remain still as the mortal seized his hands and bound them behind his back. A physical confrontation risked damage to Kate's fragile mortal body that would be annoying and time-consuming to repair. _Besides_ , he thought as the officer said something rote-sounding in accented English, _if Kate's memories are right, there's little they can do to delay me, assuming I've disposed of the so-called "evidence." And even if they detain me, there will be more opportune moments to slip their grasp._

He allowed the officers to escort him off the platform and into an elevator. They rose up, into SkyCity, then hurried through the terminal to a set of gray doors marked Airport Security. Behind them, the bright, sleek shapes of the airport gave way to industrial cubes and walls built to obscure sightlines, not to enhance them. Loki felt a moment of deja vu as the phalanx of police escorted him to a closet-sized room. _SHIELD all over again,_ he thought, and had to work to keep the smile off his face. _The mortals have a greatly inflated sense of their own abilities._

_Then again, these mortals don't even begin to know what they're dealing with._

_"Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?"_ he asked, although he could easily extrapolate answers to both questions based on Kate's understanding of her native judicial system: _possibly_ to the former and _definitely_ to the latter. Three officers crowded into the interview room; one unlocked his wrists and took his bag from off his shoulder, while the other began to pat his body. Loki barely restrained himself from kicking the patter for her insolence. _She's looking for weapons,_ Kate's memories explained. _It's not an insult—well, it is, but it's not a deliberate insult to_ you _—so don't freak out._ _Keep pretending to be scared. I would be._

Loki corrected his sneer of disdain into a more mortal lip-quiver of fear. The patter quickly finished and gestured Loki toward a chair. He sat, remembering to make his motions hesitant, and watched as an officer upended Kate's bag on the table. The officers took an immediate interest in her phone, and were immediately disappointed when they discovered it was American. They paged through Kate's notebook, thoroughly investigated her wallet, and made a pile of bits and bobs taken from the smaller pockets of her bag: change, a glittery plastic earring, a tube of lip ointment, ticket stubs, pens, plastic-wrapped objects that Kate's memories informed him were things called _panty liners_. They set aside the umbrella with barely more than a glance into its fabric folds in order to pore over the anti-SHIELD propaganda pamphlets and Kate's passport. Loki clenched his teeth to hold back his laugh.

Someone knocked at the door. A dark-haired woman in a crisp suit entered and spoke. "Anything?" she said. The officer who'd patted Loki down shook her head. Suit-woman glanced at him, then looked to the officer. "Does she speak Swedish?"

Loki did his best to look confused and worried, but the officer was helpfully quick to answer in the negative. Suit-woman sighed. "Get an interpreter," she said, then looked at Loki. "Lindskold made a positive identification over the closed circuit. She's the one that showed up at his office." She turned back to the officer. "McGrath says she watched her from the moment she stepped on the train to the moment you lot took her into custody. The cab driver's at the station; call Martinsson and ask her if she'll let us search her cab. That knife didn't just disappear into thin air."

The officer nodded and left the room. Suit-woman looked at the two officers left. "Dram, Mhuirich, either of you speak English?" she asked, and a received a pair of demurrals. She sighed, then sat down at the table across from Loki and spent a moment looking at the contents of Kate's bag without touching them before picking up Kate's passport. She flipped through the pages, a frown creasing her brows. "Katherine Sullivan," she said, and looked up at Loki. " _That is your name?_ "

Loki swallowed and nodded, trying to project wide-eyed terror. Suit-woman looked at the passport again before handing it to one of the other officers. "Have passport control look at this." She turned to Loki again. " _My name is Linda Wallander. I am a detective with the Uppsala police. You are being held here because you are suspected in a crime._ "

Loki did his best to look horrified and began sputtering denials, half-rising from his seat. The uniformed officer took a step toward him and he sank back into his chair, pretending to cower. " _I haven't done anything!_ " he mewled. " _I'm just a tourist!_ "

" _Please calm_ ," Wallander said, motioning downward with her hand, then sighed and looked at the door. "How long does it take to find an interpreter in an airport, really?" She looked back at Loki, sitting anxiously on the edge of his chair, then down at the contents of the table. She picked up one of the pamphlets, examining it front and back, then opened it. When she set it down again, her eyebrow was arched.

" _What is this?_ "

" _A zine_ ," Loki said, supplying Kate's word.

" _A what?_ "

" _Zine_ ," Loki repeated, and made a frustrated face. " _Like—like a magazine, but homemade._ "

Wallander frowned and spread the papers out before her. " _Why do you have so many—magazines?_ "

Loki shrugged. " _Reading material?_ "

Wallander's eyes narrowed, but before she could ask another question, there was a knock at the door and a mousy-looking man entered. "Someone said you needed an English interpreter?" he said hesitantly. Wallander sighed loudly.

"Yes, finally." She waited while he seated himself at the table and folded his hands in his lap, then fixed a direct stare on Loki. "Ask her why she's in this country and what she's been doing since she arrived."

Loki waited for the interpreter to speak, then answered, " _I came to see Sweden. I'm a tourist. So I was seeing Sweden._ "

Wallander pressed him for particulars, and he gave them, hewing closely to his actual travel path through Uppsala. When Wallander asked where he was staying, he said he hadn't decided yet; when she asked where his bags were, he said he hadn't brought any. She leaned on the table. "You didn't bring any bags? Any clothes?"

Loki shrugged after the interpreter finished. " _No._ "

Wallander dropped her chin and glared at Loki from under her brows. Before she could launch another volley of questions at him, there was a knock at the door. "Come in," Wallander said brusquely. One of the officers who had been in earlier stuck her head through the door and curled her fingers at Wallander. The detective stood and joined the officer outside. Loki gave the interpreter the nervous smile that he imagined Kate would have. The interpreter looked at him from the corner of his eye, and Loki had the sudden urge to smite the man. _Look at him sidelong, would he?_ Loki's hands curled in his lap, and he felt a sudden impatience with the whole idiotic pantomime. It would be simple enough to kill the police officer and the interpreter, then kick through the door and escape . . .

The door opened. Wallander came back through, a look of satisfaction on her face, and Loki wiped away any trace of what he truly felt in favor of a peasantlike docility. Instead of taking her seat, she dragged the chair around the table until it was opposite the interpreter instead of Loki. She spun it to put the back toward him, then sat down and rested her arms on the top.

"Your passport's fake," she said, sounding pleased with herself. Loki reminded himself not to react until the interpreter parroted her words in English, then he opened his eyes in mock surprise. "Right now Passport Control is calling in the officer who passed you through. I'm not sure if they're going to give him an eye exam or drug screen, because only a blind man or a high one would have allowed that kindergarten project of a passport through."

Loki arranged Kate's features into indignant affront, although he'd been expecting this since Wallander handed off the passport. The magic he'd done had copied what Kate remembered of her passport onto the paper; after that, he'd used an illusion spell to make the immigration officer's screen display what he expected to see when he scanned Kate's passport. Without Loki there to cast the illusion over the machines the officers had used, the passport had been an inert copy, easily recognizable as a fake. Wallander looked at the door.

"You can come in," she said, and the door opened. A man in a shirt and tie, without a jacket, carried in a computer and an electronic pad. "This gentleman is going to fingerprint you, Ms. Sullivan. We'll query Interpol, then the Americans. If you have a criminal record, it's going to appear, and if you are wanted for crimes committed elsewhere, the requests for extradition are going to start coming in. So. This would be an excellent time to be honest about your name, your purpose for being in Sweden, and what you've done since you landed at Arlanda this morning."

Loki waited for the interpreter to finish before pretending to panic. " _I'm not a criminal!_ " he said. " _I don't understand—I haven't done anything wrong, what do you think I've done? Why are you holding me here?"_ He screwed up Kate's face and wailed. " _I haven't done anything!_ "

Wallander was unimpressed. She left the room and Loki whined and whimpered through the fingerprint technician's work. After the man left, Loki pretended to scrub his face with his arm and slumped in his chair, the picture of confused dejection.

Kate perched on the table, legs crossed. _Clever bit with the knife, turning it into an umbrella._

_Thank you, little one,_ Loki thought. He allowed himself a minor shift in position to ease his back, but kept Kate's face frozen in a look of dismay. _How long do you imagine they'll hold us?_

Memory-Kate shrugged. _You've covered your ass as far as the theft goes. I'm not sure what they'll do about the passport._

Loki leaned his head back so that he could study the woman sitting on the table. She existed only in his mind, but that made her voice seem no less real, the image of her physical form no less perfect. And she was, Loki thought, quite nearly perfect: long-limbed, with hips that begged for hands to cup them and breasts that were shaped for caresses.

_You're a pig._

Loki fought the smile that twitched his lips. _Am I? For appreciating your form?_

_You're thinking about me like the only reason my form exists is to be appreciated._ Kate stared at him without blinking or wavering. _I don't exist for you to look at, Loki. Or to fuck._

_Oh, correct me then, my wise little one,_ Loki thought, rubbing his mouth to hide the curl of his lips. He smoothed his hand from his nose to his chin and idly traced the back of a finger along the line of Kate's jaw. _Teach me. Why do you exist?_

Kate stood on the table, her head nearly brushing the ceiling, and Loki was so startled by the sudden motion that he followed her face with his eyes. _I exist to exist,_ she said, her hands in fists as if she meant to leap upon him. _To dream and strive and act. I exist to accomplish the work I choose to do and not to be your or any man's plaything. I am not an ornament. I am not a thing to be won. I am myself, and you should fear me, Loki, because now I am you as well._

The sudden lifting of his head had drawn the attention of the interpreter and the police officer. Loki looked away from Kate's face quickly, staring at the bottom edge of the table. _Damn it, Kate—_

But the woman living in his head—no, the memories that belonged to this body that he had borrowed—wasn't done. She leapt off the table and leaned over his shoulder to whisper in his ear. _I know what you are, Loki. Frost giant. Traitor. Kinslayer—_

_I am not!_ Loki snapped in his head, and barely kept himself from opening his mouth. Kate laughed, low and throaty.

_Frost giant_ , she whispered, and Loki shuddered.

_Born a frost giant, perhaps, but I am Aesir,_ he hissed at her in his mind, and closed his eyes. He imagined himself standing to face Kate. _I have fought for Asgard for a thousand years, cut a hundred thousand throats to protect my people, and I'll kill a hundred million more to keep it safe if that's what it takes._

_Starting with your brother? Your father?_ Kate said. She stood across the table from his imagined-self, a cruel smile on her lips. _Strange how Asgard's good and Loki's are one and the same._

_I am a better king than Thor will ever be!_ Loki snarled. _I am a better king than Odin ever was! Odin is old and weak; he fell into the Odinsleep when Asgard needed him most. And Thor is a warlike brat who would spend the blood of half of Asgard to slake his pride!_

Kate was on the opposite side of the table, then she was standing behind him, her arm wrapped around his body, her hand caressing his face. _Of course,_ she crooned. _Besides, they were never your kin anyway, were they? Not Odin. Not Thor. Not Frigga. But Laufey was your father. You slew him with trickery most delicious—_

_He was not my father!_ Loki insisted, shaking off her hand. As soon as it fell, she was standing before him, both hands holding his face—crushing his face—and her eyes were a terrible red.

_Fatherless Loki,_ she hissed, her voice deepening. _Kinless Loki. Alone in all the universe. Did you think this ruse would hide you from me?_ Thanos's sharp teeth gleamed in Kate's face, and the pressure of her hands intensified, crushing his head with hands he could not escape. He struggled, but her hand's—Thanos's hands—were implacable, his head was exploding, his vision gone red, until shouts made him open his eyes.

The police officer and the interpreter were yelling at him and at each other in Swedish and English. He looked up at them from the floor, blackness clearing from the edges of his vision. He blinked and slowly rose to his elbow, accompanied by a stereo, bilingual chorus of _no, no, lay down_. The chair he'd been sitting in was turned over on its side in the corner. The table had been flipped. He lay there, breathing heavily, and felt a soreness in his arms as if he'd actually been wrestling with Kate.

With Thanos.

Loki's heart thudded in his chest. The voices of the Chitauri had gone silent with the closing of the portal. He'd thought that meant his connection to Thanos was gone. _Apparently not._

Wallander reappeared, and there was much loud and confused talking over Loki's head. A healer was brought to attend to Loki; he ignored the man's ministrations, which consisted largely of attempting to shine a bright light in Loki's eyes and asking him questions loudly. _Thanos wasn't gone._

In the corner of the room, Kate sat with her back to the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. He locked gazes with her.

_He will destroy everything we love,_ she said. _Thor. Frigga. Asgard. Earth. Everything._ In her eyes was the bleak, blackened rock where Loki had first met Thanos. _This will be Asgard, Loki. Asgard and all the Nine Realms._

"No," he whispered. The healer spoke to the interpreter, and the interpreter to Loki. He ignored them. Kate watched him, unblinking, as a gleam in her eye became a tear and tracked down her face.

_He will destroy everything we love._


	25. Chapter 25

At nine in the morning, the drink in Tony Stark's hand was more likely to be his last than his first. But not today.

Tony sat on a couch that had survived the Battle of New York and looked out over the city through the place where the windows used to be. The broken glass had been cleaned up yesterday, but the windows hadn't been replaced yet—there was a shortage of replacement windows in New York—and he'd told the workers not to board up the holes. The wind whipped through the opening, chilling the room and filling it with a dull roar. He'd joked to Pepper that he'd paid enough for the view, he wasn't covering it up, but that wasn't the real reason that he wanted the wind whipping through the penthouse lounge.

No, it had more to do with what was happening this morning.

He lifted his glass. "You were an idiot, Phil," he said. "An ordinary man facing off with gods and legends?" He looked out at the blue sky. Nothing but clouds and contrails.

"We'll miss you," he said. He started to bring the glass to his lips, but stopped with the spicy smell of 40-year-old Macallan wafting up to his nose. He stood and crossed the room to the empty window; the one Loki had thrown him through. "An ordinary man facing gods and legends," he repeated under his breath, then held the glass out into the air and poured.

The whiskey would never hit the pavement; it'd vaporize first. _The angel's share got a little bigger_ , he thought, then turned his back to the window and returned to the couch. He didn't sit, just placed his glass on the table.

Two hundred miles away, Agent Phil Coulson was in a box being lowered into the earth. Fury and Hill were there, and Rogers, and Romanoff and Barton, even though Clint should have been in a SHIELD hospital still. Even Bruce was there, despite his hatred of crowds and planes. "Make sure he gets enough peanuts," Tony had told Pepper this morning before they caught the helicopter to LaGuardia, and she had rolled her eyes at him and smiled.

"Tony, I deal with your board for a living. Dr. Banner will be fine with me."

He'd surprised her with a kiss when she finished talking: long, slow, closed eyes, very romantic. Pepper had been surprised—he wasn't good at public displays of affection, and she didn't particularly want them—but then she'd leaned in and kissed him back hard enough that he wished he could tell her to forget about the plane, forget about the funeral, funerals were stupid and pointless anyway, they'd be better off honoring Phil with a couple hours of life-affirming noisy monkey sex. And then she'd pulled away and smoothed his hair. "I'll miss you, too," she'd said. Then she'd gotten in the elevator with a very pink-faced Bruce and the doors had closed and she was gone.

Tony paced a few steps and thought, petulantly, that it was unfair that he had to choose between being with Pepper and not going to the funeral. He was the hero of New York; didn't that mean he should get what he wanted? But Pepper had been insistent, and, as always, right. "I can make excuses for you, Tony, or you can come. I know you hate funerals, but Phil was my friend, too."

_Friend_. Coulson had never been his friend. He'd been the annoying little man following him around since Pakistan, like all the rules that Tony hated had come to life and put on a suit and figured out how to override his comm protocols. But Coulson had been Pepper's friend. Last night she'd told him about the cellist, and about Coulson's man-crush on Cap, and how Coulson had read every biography of Howard Stark ever written. She told Tony about talking jazz with Coulson, and how hard it had been to give him tickets to a concert she knew he'd like: he'd insisted and insisted that he couldn't accept the gift because he was a government official, until finally Pepper had made him hand over his wallet, had taken a dollar out of it, and told him, "Here. You just bought two tickets. _Now go._ " He'd written her a thank-you note afterward with a fountain pen. Pepper had it in a box on her desk.

Coulson had never been his friend, and Tony regretted that now.

He strode to his desk and brought up the plans for his latest suit design. _When in doubt, work_ ; it had been his father's motto, and now it was his, although Tony's version was more along the lines of, _When in doubt or fear or anger or guilt or grief, work._ He was well into designing a biometrically-locked exterior release system for the suit when Jarvis spoke.

"Sir, I'm detecting a gravitational anomaly near Stark Tower."

Tony's heart skipped. "It's Avengers Tower now, Jarvis," he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. He finished the cover for the biometric entry pad, then flicked the design out of sight. "Are we talking smaller than a breadbox or bigger than a Lamborghini? On screen."

"The core of the anomaly is roughly three cubic meters and growing, sir," Jarvis said as a wire-frame of the tower appeared in the middle of the lounge. An orange ovoid shape wriggled into existence over Tony's landing pad. He shot a look through the windows. Nothing was visible to the naked eye. Yet. Tony thought of the workers on the floors below.

"Best guess, Jarvis, how big is this thing going to get? Do we need to evacuate the tower?" He glanced from the wire-frame to the windows. "Manhattan?"

"The energy appears to be spiking, sir—" Jarvis said, but before he could say more, there was a flash from outside. On Tony's landing pad stood two strangers and a familiar face: Thor. Tony smiled and checked the wire-frame. As he'd guessed once he saw Thor, the orange anomaly was right where they'd appeared and quickly fading out of existence.

"Stand down, Jarvis, they're friendlies," he said, dismissing the wire-frame with a wave. When he turned back, one of the strangers was flat on the platform, and Thor and the other friend were bent over him. Tony's smile disappeared. "Run a medical scan. Looks like someone got carsick on the drive over."

"Yes, sir," Jarvis said, but Tony was already striding toward the landing pad. Thor's still-upright companion wore scaly red armor and had a sword at his side, a see-through scarf covering ears that looked . . . longer and more pointed than usual. He—nope, _she_ —turned to look at Tony as he left the building, revealing a pair of cat eyes.

"Hey, Thor. Long time, no smash. Who's the entourage?"

Thor rose and stepped forward, putting himself between Tony and his two companions. "Man of Iron," he said, his smile of greeting unusually tentative. "It is good to see you, although I fear that I bring an unwelcome companion."

Tony looked past Thor and stopped in his tracks. "You've got to be kidding me," he said. "Jarvis? Is my suit back from the cleaners?"

"Wait," Thor said, moving into Tony's line of sight. "There is much you do not know."

"Sir, the Mark VII is not repaired yet . . ."

"Then gimme the Mark VI," Tony said, and glared at Thor. Rage and dark joy filled his chest. "Asgardian justice, huh? It's taken Pepper longer to post bail."

"I will not let you hurt my brother," Thor said, sorrow in his face, his hands in fists.

"Sir, my medical scan of Loki is showing extensive injuries," Jarvis said. "Some of them appear to be consistent with torture."

Tony blinked and looked from Thor to Loki. Thor's psychopathic little brother was sprawled with the bonelessness of the very drunk, his usually-sneering face a bloody, bruised mess. "Who did his rhinoplasty?" Tony asked, then looked at Thor. "I'd like to send him a case of Glenfiddich and a fruit basket."

"Stark, the Chitauri you destroyed were only a portion of their army. As soon as they were defeated here, they turned on Alfheim." Thor held out his hand to the woman in armor, who smiled, revealing a set of needle-sharp teeth. "This is Fridur Dothisdotter of Alfheim, heir to Dothi, commander of the guard, and friend to Asgard. Fridur, this is Tony Stark of Midgard."

"Greetings, mortal," she said, and looked him up and down. "Midgard is more comely than I remember it."

"Did she just hit on me?" Tony asked Thor, then shook his head. "Never mind. Well met, milady," he said, and made a theatrical bow, then straightened and glared at Thor. "Jarvis. The Mark VI."

"If there was anywhere else I could have gone, I would have gone there," Thor said quickly, his blue eyes pleading. "Believe me, I know the wrongs Loki has done on Midgard and to you—"

"The wrongs?" Tony interrupted, eyebrows raised. He pointed south. "You know what's happening right now, Thor? Phil Coulson's funeral. The man that _your brother_ —" he stabbed his finger in Loki's direction "—murdered two days ago. And you know what's going to happen after that?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, and poked Thor's chest armor. "The funerals of all the SHIELD agents and all the soldiers and all the cops and all the _ordinary people_ who died this week. There might be some people who could find a way to forgive that, to _understand_ that, but I'm not one of them. _Jarvis!_ "

Tony could see Thor getting angry. _Good,_ Tony thought, _I could use a good brawl._

"Sir, I cannot activate the arming protocol when there are other people on the launch pad," Jarvis said, which was a weaselly answer, because Tony knew for sure that the arming routine programmed into the robotics of the launch pad could be reprogrammed to use only part of the pad—he could do it himself if he had a few minutes to rewrite the code. Tony gritted his teeth and made a mental note to tweak Jarvis's programming later.

"I too loved the son of Coul," Thor growled. "And I will make sure that Loki is punished for what he's done. But he knows the Chitauri, and I fear we are not done with them." He swallowed, some of the anger disappearing from his face, to be replaced with regret. "I must discover _why_ Loki did what he did, and I cannot find those answers on Asgard." His electric blue eyes met Tony's. "You are not the only one who wants him dead."

Thor's friend cleared her throat. Once she had both their attention, she pointed downward and raised her eyebrows questioningly. "This is New York, yes? Where is . . . Uppsala?"

Tony looked at Thor questioningly before Jarvis's voice answered from a speaker. "It is approximately 3,761 miles to the northeast, madam."

She tilted her head and looked for Jarvis without success. "Is that far?"

"It is approximately a third of the day by commercial airplane," Jarvis answered. "Less, in supersonic flight."

"Thank you, voice," she said, and looked at Tony, head tilted whimsically. She pointed downward again. "He's not Loki. He might not be a _he_. Loki's in Uppsala. 'A third of the day by commercial airplane away,'" she said, pronouncing the words carefully, as if repeating something in a foreign language. Thor turned to stare at her. She looked at him, arching an eyebrow. "Is this not what he said? 'My name is Kate Sullivan'—that is a female name, yes?" she said, turning to Tony.

"What?" Tony said.

"That is correct, Ms. Dothisdotter," Jarvis said. "Sir, there are a number of Kate or Katherine Sullivans in the New York area. According to the Red Cross, an individual by that name is listed among the missing persons from the Battle of New York."

Thor and Tony looked at each other. Thor's friend propped her elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her fist. "You can always kill him later," she offered.

Thor turned sharply toward his friend. Tony frowned. "You're saying what? Loki and this Kate, they what, swapped bodies? That's impossible."

"It's desperate," Thor's friend interjected. "But possible." She looked at Thor. "Over longer periods of time, it could drive someone mad."

Tony turned to Thor. "You _seriously_ think that's what happened?"

The Nordic god looked at him, his uncertainty plain on his face. "I do not know, Stark. But if there is even a chance that the person inside that body is not my brother . . ." he said, his deep voice trailing off. He turned to look at Loki and Tony's gaze followed. The other Asgardian hadn't stirred since flopping onto the landing pad.

Tony frowned. It sounded like exactly the kind of bullshit that Loki would pull and Thor would buy. He looked at Loki again, and noticed that it wasn't just the trickster god's face that had seen wear—his leg had been wrapped in some kind of makeshift splint, and his clothes were splotched with stains that might have been blood. He shifted his gaze to Thor's friend— _Fridur? Weird name—_ who winked at him. _You can always kill him later._

He thought he could get to like this chick.

"Fine," he said, and pointed at Thor. "But understand this: he puts a toe out of line, I'm going to blow him apart. And if you're standing in front of him at the time, I'm not going to hesitate."

Thor's face darkened, and distantly thunder rumbled. "You might try," he said.

"Wonderful," Fridur chimed in before Tony could say anything. "Tony Stark of Midgard, perhaps you would notify your healers of the presence of one who could benefit from their attention? And Thor, perhaps you'll help me shift this not-so-very-little brother of yours?"

The big blond alien gave Tony a last warning look before turning toward Loki. "Sir?" Jarvis asked through Tony's earpiece. Tony watched Thor pick up his brother like a toddler and thought. If he brought SHIELD in on this, they'd swoop in for Loki and drop him into a concrete-reinforced lab cage—he'd seen their files, and he knew how they'd operate. Never mind that Loki was a corium flow just waiting to burn through their defenses; they'd judge the risk of him escaping being worth the information they could squeeze from him. The smart move was to take the trickster out now—not _now_ now, with Thor ready to flatten him for looking crosswise at his psychotic little brother, but soon-now, with a god-sized dose of pentobarbital.

The thought made his skin crawl.

Tony had killed. He'd fought and killed men himself, and he'd designed weapons that killed thousands; it wasn't that the idea of killing bothered him. And it wasn't that he didn't think the son of a bitch deserved it, for Coulson alone if not for New York. There was something about the idea of executing Loki, though, of putting a needle under his skin and pumping him full of poison, that just seemed . . . dishonest. Sneaky. Unfair.

Thor raised his eyebrows. Tony turned his back on the Asgardian and walked into the penthouse. Fortunately, he had friends who didn't have the same scruples. "Jarvis, record voice message for transmission to Pepper. Pepper, stay in Washington, but tell Legolas and your assistant to drop by the house." He hesitated. "And Banner. Tell him to bring that stress ball I got him. Thanks, babe. End transmission."

"Shall I transmit now, sir?"

"Do it," Tony said, crossing the lounge to the elevator, scooping up an earpiece as he went. "Then warm up the lab and run inventory on medical. Order anything you think we'll need, get it couriered to one of the satellite labs in Jersey, then find an intern who won't ask questions and have him to walk it over. I don't want SHIELD getting curious about who's got a nosebleed in the tower."

"Yes, sir."

Tony fitted the earpiece over his ear. "And Jarvis? Hold all incoming calls. Notify via earpiece when the jet lands."

"As you wish, sir."

The elevator doors opened as Thor caught up to Tony. "Ladies first," Tony said, holding the doors. Thor gave him a confused look and stopped on the threshold. Fridur ducked around him and examined the walls of the elevator as Thor followed her in, Tony entering last. He hit the door-close button and was preparing to make a joke when he got a closer look at Loki's face. Whoever had whaled on the insufferable prick had done a thorough job; and he hadn't just punched him.

"Are those—rope burns? And—"

"Stitches," Thor said. His blue eyes were full of guilt and pain. "Yes."

"You Asgardians don't mess around," he muttered. Fridur popped her head around Thor's shoulder.

"That was the frost giants. Loki killed their king and tried to destroy their entire planet." She raised an eyebrow at Thor. "I believe the traditional punishment for traitors on Jotunheim is being disemboweled and having one's body stuffed with coals?" She looked at Tony and leaned in. "We got to him before that part."

"I see," Tony said, and was saved from further insanity by the opening of the elevator doors. He held down the door-open button and gestured. Thor stepped out into the medlab level first, followed by Fridur and Tony. It was one of ten levels of R&D in Stark—now Avengers—Tower; though the emphasis was on research, this level contained an exam room and an isolation room, separated by glass walls from the rest of the largely-open floor.

"Jarvis?" Tony said. The lights flicked on in the exam room, illuminating an adjustable table surrounded by well-stocked cabinets and a lab bench. The constellation of displays mounted over the table came silently to life, registering their lack of input data with flashes. Thor laid Loki down gently, but something in the movement must have jostled the trickster, because he grimaced and stirred.

"Brother?" Thor said. "You're safe. We're on Midgard. Can you hear me, brother?"

Tony tensed and checked how far it was to the cabinets—he was pretty sure there were some sharp scissors in there, if nothing else—but Loki didn't open his eyes. Thor looked disappointed. Tony breathed a sigh of relief and began opening drawers.

"Well, good fortune to you, Thor," Fridur said. Tony and Thor turned at the same time, Thor with a startled look on his face. Fridur offered her hand and Thor took it. "I believe I've tested the bounds of diplomacy enough for one day."

"I cannot thank you enough, good Fridur," Thor said, and bowed over her hand. "I am in your debt."

"May I never have cause to require repayment," she said, smiling, before her smile faded. She placed her other hand over Thor's and spoke in a low voice. "You are not a king yet, Thor." She squeezed his hand before letting go and grinning again. "Bring me my boots back, and tell me the tale of this adventure."

Boots? Tony looked at her feet. She was barefoot.

"Tony Stark of Midgard," she said, and he jerked his eyes back up to her face. She was still smiling that unnerving needle-toothed grin. "May we meet again."

She took a step backward, into the open area of the lab, and then all the equipment in the exam room was shrieking and she was gone. Tony waved to the air. "Thanks for dropping by and screwing up all of my delicately calibrated scientific equipment," he said. "Jarvis, shut that off."

"Yes, sir." The alarms died, and Tony heaved a sigh of relief and turned to Thor. The big blond's brow was furrowed.

"Why are there no healers here?"

"Because your brother is a murderer and an alien and if SHIELD finds out that he's here, they'll put him in a box buried so deep that even you won't be able to smash your way in," Tony said tartly, then waved his hand and went back to looking for scissors. "I called Banner, he'll be here in an hour. If your brother made it through that interdimensional road trip in one piece, he can make it an episode with you and me playing nurse." Tony finally found a sealed packet of medical instruments and turned around to see Thor frowning at him—not as if he wanted to twist Tony's head off like a Pez dispenser, but as if he'd said something puzzling. Tony spread his arms. "What?"

Thor's brows drew closer together, then he shook his head. Tony dragged a wheeled instrument tray to the side of the bed, ripped open the sterile packet, and dumped the contents out. "You hold, I'll slice," Tony said, and when Thor glared, he added, "His clothes. What did you think I meant?"

Under the bright lights in the exam room, Loki looked like shit. When Tony sliced off his shirt, it only got worse: the Asgardian's body was crisscrossed with burns, some blistered, most bloody, the worst charred at the edges. Tony paused to hunt for unbroken skin to which he could attach monitoring leads and had to search for nearly two minutes until he found places. Loki's heartbeat, once the leads were attached, was fast and irregular.

"Sir, Loki appears to be suffering from severe dehydration as a result of his injuries. Might I suggest the lactated Ringer's solution in the third cabinet from right?"

Thor looked up at the ceiling speaker as Tony went to look for the IV solution. "Who is this who advises you, Stark, and why does he not show himself?" Thor said suspiciously.

"That's Jarvis," Tony said, opening cabinets until he found the solution. "He's a computer. That wasn't the third cabinet."

"From your other right, sir," Jarvis said. "I am a multifunctional program which—"

"Blah blah blah," Tony said, carrying the pouch of solution and a sealed IV kit to the table. "He's my butler. Jarvis, Thor, Thor, Jarvis. What else have you got on our patient, Nurse Ratched?"

"I need more data to suggest an appropriate course of treatment," Jarvis said. "However, based on current burn injury morbidity studies, I would suggest thoroughly washing your hands and arms before proceeding."

Tony stopped short and looked at Thor. "Right," he said.

"I will also increase the ambient temperature in this room," Jarvis said as Tony and Thor went to the sink. "Current medical guidelines suggest maintaining an ambient temperature of eighty-five degrees or greater in order to diminish the incidence of hypothermia—"

"No," Thor said immediately, looking up at the speaker in the ceiling. "Loki's condition will not be improved with heat. It is . . . part of his nature."

"As you wish, sir."

A smile broke out on the Asgardian's face. "You need not call me sir, Jarvis. I am simply Thor."

"Stop that, you'll confuse his programming," Tony said, and finished washing his hands. He returned to Loki's side and hung the Ringer's, then attached the IV tubing and let it prime. Thor's back was to Tony as he washed his hands. Tony thought about the pentobarbital in the cabinet next to him. If he moved fast, he could probably spike the bag of Ringer's before Thor turned around.

He looked down at Loki: the bruised face, neck, wrists. He didn't need Jarvis to explain the sequence to him. Loki had been captured, tortured, and half-lynched.

An unwanted memory bubbled up from his brain: a cave where torture had turned the rest of the world into a sweet delusion; where it seemed inevitable that he would have to come to peace with death, until a quiet man who'd already made that peace convinced him to keep living.

"Stark?"

Tony twitched. "Hmm?" he said. "Right. IV. Got it."

Tony turned over Loki's left arm to find a vein and was distracted by the ragged, half-healed wound on the man's palm. He looked up at Thor, whose face was troubled again.

"That injury he did to himself," Thor said. He'd found antiseptic and bandages; now he circled the table and picked up Loki's hand. He cleaned the edges of the wound, then the broken skin on Loki's wrist, and wrapped palm and wrist both with clean cloth. "He was trying to speak to me. I thought it madness, but perhaps it was desperation." Thor made neat work of the bandage and laid his brother's arm back on the table gently, with a reassuring brush across Loki's fingertips. "I wonder sometimes if all this was a desperate attempt to speak to me. To our father."

"Mm, no," Tony said. He examined Loki's arm and found a likely vein. "Pretty sure this was about taking over the world." He broke the skin, waited for blood, then finished inserting the needle and attached the IV line. "You want your dad's attention, you crash a couple cars, blow up a lab, maybe discover a new element." He taped down the line, then looked at Thor. "You don't pick up an army of aliens and invade a planet."

"And was your father Odin?" Thor said, blue eyes narrowed down at Tony.

"My father was a genius," Tony said, raising his eyebrows. "Saved the world. Ran an empire." He shrugged and sauntered to the other side of the bed. "Doesn't sound all that different to me."

"It is different," Thor rumbled. Tony looked at the monitor screens around Loki.

"Jarvis, you finished recalibrating? Walk me through some diagnostics."

"What can I do?" Thor asked. Tony opened the cabinets over the bed and pulled down a scanner on an articulated mechanical arm.

"Look pretty," he said, then added, "and keep your brother from going for my throat if he wakes up." Indicators flashed on the scanner module, and for a few minutes, the room was quiet except for the clicks and hums of the machine and Jarvis's occasional instructions as Tony guided it over Loki. A sobering picture assembled itself on the screens: broken and cracked bones, faltering organs, skittish vitals.

"Sir, the jet has landed at LaGuardia," Jarvis said into his earpiece. Tony felt a relief that surprised him. Loki was an unnerving presence, even unconscious, and Thor didn't help by looming over them both. So Tony did what Tony always did when he was uncomfortable: he talked.

"So, what, Dad always liked you best? Cheered you on at Little League, bought you ice cream, didn't care about Loki's straight-A's? So Loki decides to take over Earth."

Thor frowned in confusion before folding his arms. "It was not that simple." He stared down at his brother. Tony had opened his mouth to say something—what, he didn't know—when Thor continued. "We were raised as brothers. Told that one day, one of us would inherit the throne; that both of us were born to be kings." Thor shook his head and looked at Tony. "Asgard has always been led by warrior kings. We defend the Nine Realms against those that would destroy them; war is our way of life." Thor looked down at Loki. "I never questioned that until I came to Earth."

Tony studied the thunder god. "I hate to break it to you, kid, but war's kind of a way of life here, too," he said. "We just mostly stick to our own planet."

"I was always stronger. Faster. Stronger than everyone, but Loki was the only one who had to measure himself against me day after day, training session after training session. We were both the sons of Odin, both raised to be warrior kings, but Loki could never win. Not with strength. So he was clever. Frigga taught him magic; he studied strategy, and deception, and diplomacy. He is—" Thor stopped and swallowed. "He was as good a warrior as I was, but not in the ways that Asgard cared about. Not in the ways our father cared about."

"Yeah. Rough childhood. Still doesn't excuse the whole invading-Earth thing," Tony said. The scanner beeped, and Tony let it fold itself against the ceiling. When he looked down again, Thor was glaring at him. Tony spread his hands. "Look. Plenty of people have shitty childhoods. Only a few of them grow up to be murdering psychopaths. Let's not blame the parents, huh?"

"Odin stole my brother from another realm and lied to him about his nature for his entire life," Thor snapped.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Okay, maybe blame the parents a little."

Thor jabbed his finger at Loki and raised his voice. "He will answer for what he's done. But I will not condemn him in silence, as Odin did."

Before Tony could say anything else, Loki groaned and rolled his head away from Thor. "Loki?" Thor said, leaning over him. He placed a cautious hand on Loki's shoulder. "Loki, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?"

Tony backed away as Loki's eyelids fluttered and lifted. The trickster god's head rolled back toward Thor, and his hand rose tentatively before Loki seemed to notice his surroundings. "Where—"

"Midgard, brother, in Stark Tower," Thor said. Loki's head rolled back toward Tony and he squinted.

"You're shorter than I thought you'd be," he croaked. Tony straightened indignantly. Loki turned back to Thor. "Stark Tower," he repeated. "New York?"

"Yes, brother," Thor said, the beginnings of a smile starting in his cheeks. Loki drew his arms up as if he meant to push himself upright and was distracted by the IV. His attention went to his bandaged hand, then down to his chest. "Fuck," he muttered.

Tony blinked at the obscenity. He'd never heard an Asgardian say the word. Not that he'd spent much time with Asgardians—he'd only met Thor a few days ago, after all—but still. He watched as Loki grimaced and sat up, Thor hovering protectively as if he wasn't sure whether to touch Loki or not.

"Sir, the helicopter from LaGuardia has landed. Barton, Romanoff, Banner, and—"

"Yeah, got it, Jarvis," Tony said, and looked across the room, but Thor was focused on his brother.

"Loki, on Asgard you spoke of the Chitauri. You said their armies were not destroyed over New York. Brother, they attacked Alfheim less than two days ago. What do you know of their forces? Will they attack Asgard?"

Loki gave him a confused look, then shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. The monitor behind him showed a spike in his heart rate. "Please don't ask that right now—I can't—"

Thor grabbed his arm and shook his brother until Loki's eyes flew open, panicked. "You can't what? I am tired of your games, Loki—"

"I'm not playing games!" Loki said. His heart rate spiked again as he lifted his arm in a weak warding gesture. "Thor, just—give me a moment—I can't think—I can't—"

Outside the exam room, the elevator pinged and opened its doors. Tony had a few seconds in which to anticipate the coming explosion and consider whether there was any way of averting it before Rogers, Romanoff, Banner, Barton, and Pepper came out of the elevator. Steve wore his military dress uniform, Natasha wore a high-necked black dress, and Bruce, Clint, and Pepper were wearing suits. Steve spotted Thor while the Asgardian was still staring down Loki as if he could glare the trickster into answering.

"Thor, I didn't think you'd be back so soon," Rogers called out. "What's going—"

Cap cut himself off as Thor turned toward him, revealing Loki. In a second, Barton and Romanoff had guns in their hands, Pepper had backed up to the elevator with her arm across Bruce, and Rogers had inflated himself to full fists-clenched shoulders-braced legs-spread Captain America glory. Thor put himself between them and Loki, and even through the thick walls of the building, they heard thunder rumbling.

"He is under my—"

"Step aside, Thor—"

"Stark, what's going on—"

"Tony, who's—"

The babble of voices was interrupted by a crash, followed by the shrill alarm of the heart monitor. Loki, on the floor, shoved himself against the cabinets, his broken leg stretched before him, his mouth open and his eyes wide as half-dollars. "Please don't kill me," he whispered into the temporary cessation of voices. "Please."

"Jarvis," Tony muttered. The alarm cut off. In its absence, Loki's ragged breathing filled the room. The trickster was shaking; in that moment, stripped of his armor, cowering on the floor, he looked nothing like the swaggering psychopath who'd Hannibal Lecter'd them from the cage in the helicarrier, or even the defeated-but-defiant warrior who'd joked about having a drink. It wasn't a vulnerability that could be acted.

"That's not Loki," Tony said, only realizing that he'd said it aloud when everyone looked at him. The other Avengers and Pepper wore every variety of confusion from puzzlement to disbelief on their faces; but on Loki's face, there was a naked hope that was almost painful to see. Tony swallowed, then donned his best approximation of his usual nonchalance and crossed the room. He detoured around Thor, then squatted next to Loki.

"Katie, right?"

"Kate," Loki whispered. "Kate Sullivan."

Tony put out his hand. Loki—no, _Kate_ —stared at it before reaching out slowly to grasp it.

"We're the good guys, Kate. We're here to help."

He—nope, she—looked up into his face, and Tony hoped to God he wasn't being played, because the hero-worship in her eyes felt like a bump of coke.

"Kinsley was right," she whispered. "You're awesome."


	26. Chapter 26

The flight back to New York was not first class. Loki did his best to ignore this fact, but occasionally some smell or noise would become so vile that even his determined meditations would be interrupted, and he would be forced to confront some new mortal indignity: baby diapers; snoring; peanut butter; nose whistles. By the time the plane touched down in LaGuardia, he was ready to exterminate all of humanity.

_Loathsome creatures_ , he thought, and barely kept himself from climbing over the laps of everyone between himself and the exit as the airplane began rolling toward its dock. The air marshal seated next to him would no doubt have objected, but since the nose whistle had been issuing from him, Loki would have been perfectly content to kill him first. He waited until the aisle before them was clear, then clamped his hand over the man's wrist.

"What are you doing?" the marshal said, then went slack-faced. Loki climbed over his bony knees and took the knitted cap that he'd lifted from a passenger and flattened it over Kate's hair. He stuffed his jacket into Kate's bag, then strode down the aisle. At the end of the dock, a pair of suited officials searched the exiting passengers for the marshal and his prisoner; Loki breezed by them without a second glance. Instead of going through the customs line, he found a locked access door, melted the electrical circuits, and stepped inside. After a bit of wandering and dodging through the gritty belly of the airport, he re-entered the public area beyond customs and strode easily toward the exit.

Kate's phone let out a series of frantic chirps. He retrieved it from her bag and examined the notifications as he walked.

_OMG Kate SHIELD was here_

_And PEPPER FREAKING POTTS_

_They are LOOKING FOR YOU_

_WTH WTF WHERE ARE YOU_

_YOUR CREDIT CARD GOT USED IN SWITZERLAND OR SOMETHING???_

_ANSWER THE FREAKING PHONE_

_ARE YOU DEAD?_

_DONT BE DEAD_

_YOU HAVENT PAID RENT YET_

_JUST KIDDING_

_SERIOUSLY WHAT IS GOING ON_

_AND IF YOU MET IRON MAN AND YOU DIDN’T TAKE A PICTURE I WILL FUCKING MURDER YOU_

_:D_

Kate's memories supplied a face and a voice for the messages, and Loki suppressed a smile. The other messages were less entertaining: it seemed that Kate's family had become aware that she was missing. He dismissed them without listening.

After Thanos had made it clear that he was still watching Loki, Loki had considered his options. He could attempt to evade Thanos as Kate; but what of Asgard? If the purple bastard decided to take out his ire on Loki's home, the Aesir would fight back, but the cost to Asgard would be heavy. He could hunt Thanos himself, but even in his own body, that was a fool's mission.

No. He required the assistance of the greatest warrior he knew, other than himself.

_You and I, brother. It is always you and I,_ Loki thought, his mouth twisting bitterly, though it was not Thor's fighting skill that made Loki concede the necessity of his alliance. No, Loki needed Thor as his advocate, as much as the thought galled him. Only Thor—pretty, popular Thor—would have the influence in Asgard to convince them of their imminent danger.

Loki strode through the nearly-empty airport, his thoughts as dark as the night skies outside. He had served Asgard all his life—more than a thousand years—and now he faced the prospect of begging to be allowed to defend it again. _There are limits to what my pride will bear for Asgard,_ he thought, anger licking his borrowed limbs with new flames from old coals.

The exhaust-and-cigarette-scented air of the taxi stand soothed his nerves. He took a deep breath, grateful for air that hadn't been passed through a dozen human lungs before he inhaled it, and felt his thoughts returning to more useful channels.

  _SHIELD was here_.

Then his brother had finally come looking for Loki, two and a half days after Kate had replaced him. He couldn't decide if he should feel respect for her performance, or disdain for the blindness of Thor and the others. _It doesn't matter,_ he told himself; the relevant inference was that Thor had returned and had enlisted his allies in searching for Loki. Loki looked at Kate's phone again. _PEPPER FREAKING POTTS_.

"She's the CEO of Stark Industries," Kate said, appearing beside him. She wore the clothes she'd been wearing during the Battle of New York, but not her bag; her hands were tucked into her pockets. "She's the only person in the universe cooler than Tony Stark, according to Kinsley."

_And what can we conclude from her appearance on your doorstep?_ Loki asked.

Kate frowned and hunched her shoulders. "I don't know," she said. "She's not an Avenger. But she and Tony Stark have a thing." She looked over at him. "You should call Kinsley. Ask who it was from SHIELD who showed up."

Loki raised an eyebrow. _Why?_

Kate shrugged. "Maybe it'd tell you more about what Thor's up to." She glared at him. "You're the one that Jedi Mind Tricked Clint Barton into telling you everything about SHIELD, right? Maybe you'd get a sense of what their plans are if you know who they sent to look for me. Anyway, you should let Kinsley know I'm still alive. She's probably been freaking out since New York."

Loki looked up at the sky. There was too much light to see the stars.

_You have a point,_ he conceded. _But what shall I tell your Kinsley about where we've been and what we've done?_

Kate let out a deep sigh. "You're the Liesmith, Loki. You figure it out."

She disappeared, and a taxi pulled up to the curb. Loki turned his back on it and called Kinsley. The number rang once before she answered.

"Holy shit, Kate, where have you been? Are you okay? Where are you right now?"

"I'm fine, Kinsley," Loki said, trying to keep his irritation out of Kate's voice. "I'm in New York, and I'm fine. It's a really really long story, and I promise I'll tell you all of it later, but I need your help right now."

"Do you need me to come get you? I can—"

Loki cut her off. "No, I don't need you to come get me. I need to know who it was from SHIELD who visited you today—if you didn't get a name, then a description."

"Holy. Fucking. Shit. Are you in trouble? Should we even be talking on a cell phone? Because if it's SHIELD—"

"Kinsley, just answer the question," Loki snapped. "Who came to talk to you?"

"Jesus, Kate, don't be a bitch. It was the normal-looking dude with the bow and arrows who was in the Battle of New York—he was wearing a suit, but it was definitely him, I checked after they left." Kinsley's voice turned pleading. "Kate, talk to me. What is going on with you? Where have you been? They said—"

Loki ended the call and silenced Kate's phone, shoving it back into her bag as the call screen lit up. Kate reappeared on the sidewalk, looking angry.

"What the fuck, Loki?"

He turned away from her and moved toward the taxis. _I let her know that you're still alive. What are you complaining about?_ He climbed into the nearest cab, ahead of a passenger wrestling with her wheeled bags, and transformed a 20-kronor note into a hundred dollar bill to thrust under the driver's nose. "Grand Central Station. Fast."

Kate sat next to him, glaring. "She's my friend, asshole. Don't act like a dick to her when you look like me."

_She was not answering my questions._ Loki risked a sideways look at Kate. _You can apologize later._

"She was _worried about me_ ," Kate snapped. "Just because no one fucking likes you doesn't mean you get to be an asshole to my friends, Loki. Stop doing shit that _I'm_ going to have to apologize for later."

Loki sighed and leaned into the cab's cushioned seat. _Shut up, Kate._

"I mean, I get that you have no friends, and you probably have no idea what it _means_ to be a friend to someone, because you've had your head shoved up your ass about not being as good as Thor for the last five hundred years—"

_Shut up, Kate._

"—but this is pretty basic human interaction shit here, you know, where you're not a complete and total dick to people, but I guess you never figured that out, because _you_ were the fucking _prince_ , _you_ never _had_ to worry about people getting mad at you because they weren't _allowed_ to be mad at you—”

"Shut up, mortal," Loki snarled.

"Excuse me?" the driver said, eyebrows raising in the rear-view mirror.

"This does not concern you," Loki said. The driver's eyes narrowed.

"Look, bitch, if you're gonna be an asshole, I'll pull over right now and let you out," he said. "C-note or no c-note, I don't have time for assholes."

Loki contemplated throttling the man and driving his vehicle himself. It couldn't be difficult.

"WHAT DID I JUST FUCKING SAY, LOKI—"                      

He clenched his teeth. "I apologize," he said. "I was not speaking to you." He palmed Kate's phone and held it up. "Text message," he gritted.

The driver gave him a suspicious look, then turned his attention to his driving, though he looked back at Loki frequently. Loki tried to control Kate's face.

_That was your fault._

Kate unfolded her arms and glared at him from the other side of the cab. "I'm a bundle of memories," she hissed at him. "I don't fucking exist, Loki. I am _literally_ the shit your subconscious is scraping together out of Kate's memories and your own fucking insecurities, so don't blame me for your bullshit."

He clamped his jaw down on the scathing retort he wanted to loose. He had not expected this.

Kate made a frustrated growl and slumped, propping her sneakers against the back of the driver's seat. "So why are we going to Grand Central? Where are we going after that?"

_We're not going to Grand Central_ , Loki said. He clenched the top of Kate's bag and watched the city lights flash past the windows without really seeing them. _We're going to Stark Tower._

She raised her eyebrows. Loki forced himself not to look at her. The cab driver was still glancing at him suspiciously.

_The man that accompanied Pepper Potts was Clint Barton._

Kate's eyes widened. She put her feet down. "Ooh," she said. "He hates you. Like, _hates you_ hates you. I mean, you made him kill some of his coworkers, right? When he sees you—”

She stopped and narrowed her eyes. Loki allowed himself a small smile.

_When he sees me, he'll try to kill me. Unless the others stop him. Perhaps send him away on a frivolous task so he isn't tempted by my nearness. But why would he be accompanied by Potts? Why not Romanoff, or another SHIELD agent? Perhaps because my sweet brother has gone to his friends, not SHIELD. And which of his friends most enjoys announcing his presence to the world?_

"Stark," Kate said. Her eyes flicked over his face as she thought. _As Loki imagined her thinking,_ he corrected himself. "So you think Thor came back here with me—you—and went to Stark. But SHIELD doesn't know."

_Kinsley spoke to Barton and Potts near midday, hours ago. Do you think we would have been met at the airport with two incompetent police officers if SHIELD believed that we had traded bodies and that I was arriving there? Your name went into Interpol's records. SHIELD would have known we were coming. If SHIELD knew we were coming._

"Thanks for the reminder that I now have a criminal record," Kate growled, and rubbed her temples. She braced her palms against her forehead and her elbows on her knees. "SHIELD doesn't know we're back. But Stark does. So—Stark Tower. That's where you think I am."

_Clever girl._

"Go fuck yourself," Kate muttered, and lifted her head to look out the window. They crossed over the East River, the water dark and glimmering to either side. Once they reached land again, traffic immediately slowed. "So, what, you're going to walk into the lobby and announce yourself? 'Hi, I'm Loki, I trashed New York a couple days ago but I left my body behind, I'd like to have it back now?'" She snorted. "If you don't get kicked out, you're going to get beat up." She glared. "If you get me beat up, I swear to God, I will have Thor break your face on my behalf."

_Please. Even if you can't imagine anything cleverer, grace me with the confidence that I will._ Loki turned his gaze away from Kate, to the window. His eye was caught by flowers piled haphazardly in a doorway that had been covered with plywood, the plywood itself crudely painted with a name. Before he could examine it further, the cab had moved on; it turned down a street and came to an abrupt halt. Ahead, police lights flashed, guarding a crane that lifted a broken spar from a building. The process was infuriatingly slow, hampered by the mortals' crude machinery. Loki tapped his fingers on Kate's thigh, then leaned forward.

"Can we go another way?" he asked.

The cab driver frowned. "All the streets are like this," he said, then half-turned. "You do watch the news, right? Grand Central was right in the middle of everything."

"Right," Loki muttered, and leaned back in his seat. The driver watched him a moment longer, squinting suspiciously, before the brake lights ahead of him dimmed. He returned to his wheel and eased the cab forward a few feet before stopping again.

Kate was looking out his window. "Those flowers back there, they were a memorial," she said. She pointed, and Loki looked out the window. Sheets of paper fluttered against a lamppost. "Those are missing people. Their families and their friends put those up. Came into New York if they didn't live here, brought the best pictures they had of their loved ones, got copies made. Walked these streets up and down, asking if anyone saw them, putting up posters. Trying to find out if people are living or dead, maybe dying in a hospital alone somewhere because they didn't have their wallet on them, or their clothes got burnt up, or they were undocumented." She looked at Loki. He resisted turning to see her expression. The cab inched forward. He heard her slide across the seat, felt her warm body press close to his side, her breath on his ear, _but all of it was a lie, all of it was an illusion his mind created, she was nothing, she was memories, she didn't exist—_

"They suffer," she whispered. "Mothers. Fathers. Sons. Brothers. The ones they love are dead or dying or gone, the homes they loved are rubble, the skies above them that once were sources of light and beauty are full of menace and terror, _and you are the reason, Loki._ You are the reason that the children of Earth weep in their beds and cry for their mothers, you are the reason that lovers kneel on fresh-turned earth and keen, you are the reason that aged fathers' hearts break—"

_You don't exist, you're nothing, you're nothing—_ Loki chanted in his mind.

Kate covered his mouth with her hand and gripped the back of his head and pulled his ear close to her mouth so she could hiss, "You are a monster, Loki. Not because you are a Jotun—because you are a killer."

"Enough!" Loki said aloud, shaking off her hands.

The cab driver started, then turned in his seat and stomped on the brake. "Out," he said, pointing. "Get out of my cab right now."

Loki blinked, startled. "What?"

"I don't need no crazy in my cab," he said, and stabbed his finger toward the sidewalk again. " _Out,_ or I will come over there and throw your ass out."

"I paid you—"

The cabbie rolled down the passenger window and threw a crumpled bill out. "There. There's your money back. Now get the hell out, or I'll call that cop over," he said, nodding at the police officer a few cars ahead.

"Worthless mortal," Loki snarled. "May you die of blackened lungs." He shoved the door open, stepped out onto the street, and almost fell immediately, his heels unsteady on the broken asphalt. Arms spread for balance, he scurried to the sidewalk and plumbed Kate's memories for an appropriate salute to the driver. _Excellent work, Kate. We've lost our transport._

Kate appeared beside him and lifted her left hand to the driver, all fingers curled but the tallest. Loki imitated the gesture, then turned his attention to his surroundings. Kate folded her arms.

"Don't blame me. I don't exist."

_You provoked me!_ Loki said. He spotted a street sign ahead, but it was too dark to read from this distance. He began walking toward it. Kate followed, keeping pace easily.

"It's never your fault, is it, Loki? Not the cab, the invasion—"

"It wasn't," Loki hissed, his heels making quick, angry clacks on the concrete. "Thanos and the Chitauri were going to invade Earth whether I led them or not. _I_ gave Earth a chance. _I_ delayed. _I_ brought the Avengers together. _I_ planted the knowledge of how to close the portal in Selvig's mind—"

"You're full of shit, Loki," Kate snarled. She took two long strides to get ahead of him, then began walking backward, facing him. "The Chitauri wanted to invade Earth but _you opened the portal for them_. You killed people and you twisted people's minds and you gave exactly _two shits_ about trying to contain the damage because _we're just mortals_ , just a bunch of dumb-ass monkeys who don't know a god from a goose." She stopped and grabbed his throat and threw him against a glass storefront so quickly that he didn't have time to react. " _You were supposed to protect us!_ " Kate roared. "You wanted to be king of Asgard. You wanted to rule the Nine Realms. Well, _the kings of Asgard protect Earth._ That's their _fucking job,_ you arrogant, entitled, racist trash. You had the chance to fight for humanity and you _threw us to the fucking Chitauri_ to keep Asgard safe." She slammed the back of his head against the glass. " _You betrayed Asgard._ "

"Stop it!" Loki broke from her grasp and panted, one hand on the wall for support, the other hand at his throat. _She's not real,_ he told himself. _She's an illusion. She's in your head. Stop imagining her and she'll go away._

"Of course I'm in your head," Kate hissed in his ear. "I'm you, Loki. I'm all the truths you refuse to face." Loki started walking, not caring whether he was going in the right direction or not. Kate paced him. "You're a murderer and a traitor, Loki. You can lie to Thor and you can lie to yourself but you can't run from the truth, and the truth is that you are arrogant and power-hungry and heartless, _and you are unfit to be king of a mountain of dung beetles, much less Asgard._ "

_Thanos,_ Loki thought desperately. _This is Thanos, digging up old fears and giving them new breath._ He just needed to concentrate, to build a wall that would keep him out of his head . . .

"Wrong!" Kate said from the other side of him, and laughed, a peal of wicked delight. "Thanos has nothing to do with this." She grinned, and spread a hand toward another flower memorial as they neared it. "Or this." She skipped ahead and swung around a lamppost plastered with papers. "Or this."

_Missing!_

_Have you seen?_

_Please call!_

_Last seen:_

Loki hurried past the faces, avoiding their black-and-white eyes. Kate skipped up beside him. "You were supposed to protect us," she sing-songed. "You were supposed to save us."

"Will you shut up?" Loki said. She stopped skipping and turned to walk backwards again, her face turning grim.

"No," she said. "I'm not shutting up. I didn't speak before because there was work to be done. But now that you have the knife, now that you're about to get your body back, I am not letting you walk away without making you see—" she caught his arm and spun him to face the opposite side of the street "—the damage you've wrought on the world you were born to protect."

He had been so harassed, so distracted, that he hadn't noticed that there were no cars on the street anymore. Not functional cars, that is; where the opposite sidewalk should have been was a pile of rubble, and half-buried beneath it was a sedan, the roof crushed, one door pulled off. The building it stood in front of was half-smashed, the rooms within exposed to view: bedrooms, living rooms, kitchens. Men and women climbed over the wreckage under spotlights, calling to each other. A woman and a dog sat on the bumper of a truck, both dirty and tired-looking, the dog laying with its head on its paws, the woman slowly stroking its back and muttering words of comfort.

"The dogs become sad when they don't find anyone alive," Kate whispered. "Their handlers have to hide people in the rubble for them to find, or they stop believing in themselves."

"I was born a Jotun," Loki said, unable to look away from the pair until he felt Kate's hand slide into his. He looked down, astonished, then at her face.

"You were born to protect this world. _What_ you are is unimportant; what you _do_ is what matters." She stared at him until he thought the blackness of her pupils would swallow him. "Know who you are, Loki. Know _what_ you are. Stop lying to yourself. You can and must save Asgard. But not by letting another world be destroyed."

Loki stared at Kate—at this illusion summoned somehow by his mind—and for the first time in many years, he didn't know what to say. Kate reached up to curve her free hand along his jaw.

"Kate believed in you," she whispered. "She saw what you were, she saw what you'd done, and she saw Thanos. And she believed."

"Kate's a mortal," he started to say, but she put her thumb over his lips.

"You think that because their lives are so short, they know nothing. But that's not true." She stared into his eyes, unblinking. "They know when they've met a god they can believe in. And that belief—that faith—" She caressed the side of his face slowly, tilting her head as if it, too, was a hand to caress him. "—that's what makes a god, Loki." She smiled slightly. "That's what makes anything."

She was gone.

Loki blinked and raised his hand to the side of his face to trace the ghost of her touch, then stared at it: her hand. Not his own.

"Ma'am?" someone called from across the street. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

Loki looked up. The woman with the dog had stood, and was looking in his direction. He opened his mouth, but the words to turn her away wouldn't come to his lips. She started to walk toward him.

He turned from the rubble and began to walk as briskly as he could, in the dark and wearing heels. He was blind to the streets and the storefronts, his mind working restlessly over what Kate had said.

_No. Not Kate, and not Thanos,_ he thought, but his mind balked at the logical conclusion: that what the mortal might have called his "conscience" had borrowed her image and berated him.

_Foolishness_ , he thought, hollowly. _Foolishness and sentiment._

With a mighty effort, he forced his thoughts away from Kate and studied his surroundings. _Boarded windows, broken concrete, piles of bricks, dented cars—_ street signs. The one ahead read 41st Street.

When Kate herself— _the illusion of Kate,_ he reminded himself—didn't appear to point the way, he was oddly disappointed. He trudged forward, regretting his decision to give up Kate's sneakers in Uppsala. His ankles ached. But Stark Tower was only four blocks away.

Forty-Second Street was devastated. Sawhorses blocked the road to vehicle traffic; a crane loaded the twisted metal corpses of cars onto a flatbed truck. Further down the street, machinery and floodlights worked on half-collapsed buildings; the roar of diesel generators filled the air, punctuated by shouts, and beneath it all was the hiss and burble of water escaping from a broken main. The slick street reflected red, blue, and orange with the lights of fire engines and construction equipment as Loki crossed it, his footsteps turned to splashes instead of clacks. In the air were the smells of brick dust and burnt plastic and diesel.

Mortals stood at the sawhorses. Some of them wrapped their arms around themselves; others were shoulder to shoulder, clinging like stranded sailors. They watched the work on 42nd Street with little talk, other than a few quiet words here and there, except when shouts came up from the wreckage: and then they would all go silent, and lean across the wooden barriers until the shouting stopped, and the workers dispersed. Loki looked at them, the individuals and the couples, and wondered: were the ones who waited alone searching for their partners? Were the ones in pairs couples looking for children, or two bereaved friends comforting each other? After two and a half days . . .

Loki stopped in the middle of the street. From behind, though they were small, they could have been Aesir. Loki had been held back from the fighting, once, after being injured; he had waited at the gates for the return of Asgard's army, standing beside Frigga on the reviewing stand, and below he had seen husbands and fathers, wives and mothers, waiting with their children for their loved ones to return. They had strained to see through the gates with the same intent gaze, the same still attentiveness, as if by fixing their eye on the horizon they could command the sight of their loves. At the time, Loki had been distracted by his own anger at being held back from the fighting, but he could see the scene again, now, and in it he saw more similarity than strangeness in the Aesir and the mortals. It was he and Frigga who had been different, he realized; he and Frigga who had waited for the return of Thor and Odin with certainty instead of fear, Frigga's certainty born of prophecy and Loki's born of ignorant confidence. He had known nothing in the Nine Realms could defeat his brother or his father, and so he'd never feared for them.

It was different for the mortals.

He stood there until the shouts that built in his chest were close to escaping, and then he turned and walked as fast as he could. _They're dead!_ _They're all dead! Stop this useless vigil! Stop looking!_

At 43rd Street, he turned left and walked until he ran out of street on Lexington. Sawhorses blocked Lexington to the south, so Loki walked north, resigned to the longer path to Stark Tower. Lexington was darker and quieter than Third Avenue had been; traffic had been routed away except for the occasional police car or ambulance, the latter travelling with lights and ominous silence. Loki walked fast, the sound of his steps echoing from the buildings, and wished Kate would walk beside him. He tried to imagine her into existence there, but she didn't appear. He was on the verge of casting an illusion of her when he realized what he was about to do.

_Control yourself, Loki._

Kate's laugh echoed in his head as he walked through the dark, trailed by an army of ghosts.


	27. Chapter 27

It was quiet in the dark.

It wrapped her like a down comforter, blocking out sight, touch, sound, except for the _dub-dub_ of her heart.

_Dub-dub._

_Dub-dub._

Reminding her that she had a body. Reminding her that she was alive. That she was not nothing.

She wouldn't have objected to being nothing. Disappearing into the dark, one with it. The dark didn't judge. The dark didn't ask her name. The dark didn't care what she'd done, or what she was, or whether she knew who she was.

The dark was warm and quiet and insensate, and she drifted on it like a bather in the sea, her eyes so full of sky that she didn't know where the shore was. She only felt it.

_Dub-dub._

_Dub-dub._

_Dub-dub._

Something changed.

_Dub-dub._

_DUB-DUB._

_DUB-DUB-DUB-DUB-DUB-DUB-_

Light searing her eyes and every burn-cut-bruise throbbing and her broken leg screaming and noise noise noise beeping rushing chemicals in her mouth blood in her mouth antiseptic sweat talcum blood she smelled it she smelled it god everything everything stop it stop it STOP IT

"Kate.

"Come on, Kate. Wake up."

It was her voice. Her own fucking voice.

She squinted. A shape leaned over her.

It was her.

Her face. Her shape. Her hand, reaching for her shoulder—

except it wasn't her shoulder, it was Loki's shoulder, and she wasn't Loki, she wasn't his conscience, she was Kate, she was real, she existed, and right here right before her wearing her like a change of clothes was Loki, Loki the trickster, Loki the liar, looking down at her with irritation in his stolen eyes—

Kate grabbed Loki by the throat. "You," she rasped.

"Yes, me," Loki snapped, easily peeling her fingers off his throat. "What was it you said to me last? 'No scratches or dings'?" He gave her a sarcastic look. "I see I should have told you the same."

She wanted to curse him, but there weren't words for the hatred that welled in her chest. He looked away from her and found the controls to raise the bed. She realized, as she rose, that the lights in the room were dimmed—they had only seemed bright to her because she had been in darkness so long.

"You will observe, when we return to our own bodies, that I have treated yours with the utmost respect," Loki said. He turned back to her and reached matter-of-factly for her face. "I suppose it was a bit much to expect of you to keep mine in one piece—"

His fingers pressed her temples and everything screamed to the surface: being locked in the dark, travelling with the Tesseract, going slowly mad in the dungeons below the castle, being outlawed, running through the streets of Asgard, being caught and tortured by the frost giants—

Loki stumbled back and fell, catching himself on his hands. He looked up, shock written across his face. As if all that was a surprise. As if he hadn't expected that he would be punished.

Rage pushed the pain of her injuries back. She flung the blankets from her, realizing as she did that Loki had disconnected the IV that had been dripping morphine into her veins. That was why she was awake.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood unsteadily, the air cast on her broken leg taking some of her weight. Loki watched her from the floor, narrowing his eyes. She ripped the cotton gown from her body, revealing the mats of bandages that covered her chest and legs and arms and back.

"They gagged me," she said, shaking. Loki's eyes had widened at the sight of the bandages; now he narrowed them again. He didn't understand. She could see it. She clawed at the topmost edge of the bandage and got her fingers under the tape, then ripped it loose. Anger left his face and was replaced by shock.

"They did this to me because of you. Because of _you_ , Loki."

She was shaking, and she knew that she should go back to the bed—that she should sit, at least, before she fell—but she took a limping step forward, willing him to see, willing him to understand. He watched her advance with Kate's eyes, and she couldn't read the alien mind behind them. She couldn't understand her own face. She started to weep, the tears stinging as they crossed her bruised flesh.

"They sewed. My mouth. Shut. I stopped knowing who I was, if I was you, if I was me. I started to think I was you, Loki."

Loki's limbs were too weak for this, and finally they failed her. She fell to her knees, the impact driving a cry from her, but before she could collapse on her face, Loki was there, holding her up. She stared until she could see herself, Loki, reflected in her own dark eyes, and then she let Loki hold her, and she wept. For herself, and for Loki, and for things she couldn't name; for the dead of New York, and the dead of Asgard; for the boy who had grown up in his brother's shadow and the girl she had been on the night a tall dark stranger had walked into her library. She wept, and Loki held her, and that was how the Avengers found them: god and mortal kneeling in the dark.


	28. Chapter 28

Loki was in a mood to murder: his feet hurt, his head was splitting, and Kate was bawling on his shoulder, still in possession of his body. He tried to sort through the thoughts that he'd picked up and had little luck. His memories had overwhelmed her, it seemed, and her ungentle treatment on Asgard had not helped the matter.

Ungentle? She'd been tortured. Her chaotic thoughts made it difficult to understand who'd done it—surely not frost giants, surely she'd been hallucinating or mixing past and present—but Loki was less concerned with perpetrators than with effects, for now, anyway. She was barely able to walk, and the purpose and necessity of the mind-clouding drugs dripping into her veins had become apparent: in the last two and a half days, Kate and her borrowed body had been broken. Systematically, thoroughly; even assuming he could calm her mind enough to slip it back into her mortal form, he'd be left with a damaged and barely-functional body.

Loki cursed the ones who'd done this, whoever they were, and tried to think. He had anticipated the possibility of rough handling, but not to such a degree as would prevent him from immediately swapping bodies with Kate and returning to Asgard. With this much damage, travelling between realms would be difficult; fighting would be impossible. His half-formed plan of immediately hunting down Thanos in whatever blasted, desolate hole the grinning monstrosity laired in fell apart.

Kate—the Kate who lived in Loki's head, not the one crying on his shoulder—cleared her throat. He lifted his head, a little startled that she would show herself when her living model was present, and heard the elevator doors chime. Mind-Kate raised an eyebrow and pointed a finger at the ceiling, where a glass eye watched the bed. _Of course_ , Loki thought, mouth turning sour. Mind-Kate smirked at him before disappearing. _Insolent minx,_ he thought, and then his brother's friends were crowding the doorway, six different kinds of confusion on their faces.

"I didn't ask her to get out of bed," he said, raising his eyebrows. Kate stiffened in his arms. Thor and Romanoff caught on quickly; to his surprise, Stark was only a heartbeat or so behind, followed by Banner: Thor glowered, Romanoff drew her pistol, Stark glared, and Banner adjusted his glasses. Rogers and Barton reacted to their teammates, Rogers by puffing himself up, Barton by drawing his pistol. Neither of them were quite sure where the threat was until Loki lifted his chin.

"I've come for what's mine."

"Move away from her," Romanov said, the gun steady in his direction. Thor gave her an uneasy look that Rogers echoed, for different reasons, while Barton matched his partner's aim. Loki let go of Kate and spread his arms wide, leaving the mortal swaying on her knees. "Dr. Banner," the spy said. The man-monster started, then ducked into the room and went to Kate's side. She ignored him as he knelt beside her; her eyes were only for Loki.

"She's okay," Banner said over his shoulder, then began speaking in a low, soothing voice to Kate. She let him place his hands on her to support her back into the bed, but didn't stop glaring at Loki. He smiled at her, then turned to his audience, arms still held out.

"Of course she's fine. I have no intention of hurting Kate." He let some of the humor out of his voice as he focused on Thor. "Although someone did."

"Loki," Rogers said, speaking his name as half question, half statement. Loki bowed from his knees and turned his hands out in a flourish.

"Captain. Have you being doing the crosswords? It's good to see a man of your age making an effort to stave off dementia." Loki appreciated Kate's additions to his knowledge of mortal frailties when he saw Rogers flinch. He turned his smile on Barton. "Hawk. You look well. Answering the Widow's command, now?" He turned his attention from Barton, who was almost trembling with the desire to shoot, to Romanov, who could have been made of stone. "I didn't take you for a falconer, Natasha. Is this a new hobby? Has lying to your friends and colleagues begun to bore you?" He snapped his fingers as if remembering while the Widow watched him with bored eyes. "Of course not. You don't have friends. You have debts. How _is_ the ledger, by the way?"

"When you're done—" she began to say, but she was interrupted.

"You think this is a fucking game, Loki?" Kate snarled, lunging at him hard enough that Banner had to haul her backward to keep them both upright. "You want to banter? _Fuck you_. No one gives a shit how clever you are. Now where's the goddamn knife?"

The general surprise among the Avengers at Kate's interruption turned into tension with her last word. Loki looked at the mortal woman wearing his body and let his eyes turn cold. She wasn't shaken; her eyes were bright with hatred, though her chest heaved and fresh blood streaked her chin. Still watching her, he used his left hand to lift the strap of Kate's bag over his head and held it in Thor's direction. Thor stepped forward and took it, careful not to interfere with the Widow's line of fire. Barton and Romanoff watched Loki as Thor opened the bag; Loki ignored them. Kate shivered, held upright only by Banner's support, her eyes fixed on Loki.

"Someone hates your guts," memory-Kate whispered into Loki's ear. He barely managed to still his flinch as the Kate of his mind straightened and crossed to the Kate wearing his body. "You owe her an apology," she said, stroking one hand over Kate's hair. She traced the bruise that circled Kate's neck. "You didn't warn her that this was a possibility."

_I didn't know it was a possibility_ , Loki said, clenching his teeth to keep from saying the words aloud. Before memory-Kate could respond, Thor swore and dropped the bag.

"What sorcery is this, Loki?" he asked, flexing the fingers of his left hand as if to restore feeling or reassure himself that he still had them. The bag was on the floor, the umbrella beside it. Loki smiled and unwound the illusion hiding the knife with a flick, and he was gratified to hear the mortals gasp. He turned away from Kate and raked his gaze across the assembled Avengers.

"It's—"

"It's a knife that kills Asgardians," Kate said. His smile disappeared as he turned his head in her direction. _I will cut your tongue out,_ he thought at her, but she'd stopped looking at him. "The king of Asgard made it a couple thousand years ago. Left it on Earth to discourage his subjects from showing up and starting shit. Sort of a Sam Colt thing—the gods made humans and Asgardians, but Borr made them equal." She grinned. Blood dripped from her chin. "I found it. With the help of an acid-tripping, butt-obsessed fantasy writer."

It was small consolation that nearly all the Avengers looked confused at Kate's words. "Asgardian, huh?" Stark said, scoffing, and reached for the knife. Banner squinted at it with curiosity, and the rest tensed, remembering Thor's reaction to the weapon, so that Loki was the only one watching Kate when her eyes flickered and rolled back into her head. He lunged to catch her as she slipped from Banner's inattentive hands, landing awkwardly on his hip as her greater weight brought him down. Leather squeaked and hammers cocked behind him; he ignored the noises of the Avengers readying their weapons and felt for a pulse under her too-cold skin.

"Kate," he hissed, and shook her. "You meddling brat, wake up."

"She's bleeding again," Banner said, sounding resigned. Loki gripped her chin and ignored the hand that fastened on his shoulder and tugged him back.

"Pay attention to me, you worthless cow. You're not allowed to die in this body. Do you understand me? _You don't die._ "

Her eyelids twitched and lifted just enough to show a sliver of green. "You don't tell me what to do," she mumbled. Half her mouth lifted. "Go to hell, Loki." Her eyes slid shut again. The hand on his shoulder wouldn't be ignored, this time, and Loki found himself dragged away from Kate. He looked up: of course it was Thor. Of course.

"I can help," he snapped.

"No," Thor rumbled. Loki tensed, half-tempted to steal the knife out of Stark's hands and stab Thor with it, but before he could fit action to thought, Thor wrapped his arm around Loki's waist and picked him up.

"What are you doing?" Loki yelped, and because he was wearing Kate's tiny, weak form, his kicks didn't even discomfit Thor as his brother carried him out of the room. He growled and aimed for Thor's crotch, but the angle was unfavorable. Loki cast a last look in Kate's direction: Banner, Stark, and Rogers surrounded her, Banner in charge, Rogers clearly present only because he couldn't resist a disaster in the making. The Hawk and the Widow followed him like a pair of stalking wolves. Loki's lip curled.

"Put me down."

"I don't think so, brother."

Loki elbowed Thor in the head, and when his brother's grip loosened, he jammed his heels into Thor's stomach, broke free of his brother's grip, landed in a somersault, and rolled to his feet between the Hawk and the Widow. Where Barton punched him in the face.

"Ow!" Loki yelped, putting a hand to his face. He shot a glare at Barton over the edge of his hand. "This is a rental!"

The Widow yanked his hand down, bent it behind his back, and handcuffed it. "We know," she said, giving his arm a twist that sent him to his toes. "We're being gentle."

Thor gave Loki a woeful look as he rubbed the side of his head. "Brother, you know I can help her," Loki growled. "Tell them to let me go."

Thor let his hand drop. "Upstairs," he said. "As we discussed."

Loki tried to dig his heels in—even kicked off his shoes and dragged his bare feet on the floor—but Romanoff and Barton simply lifted him between them, jabbing their thumbs beneath his arms to quell his struggles. He subsided before the elevator, then as the doors began to close, made a lunge that Barton turned into a full-length sprawl with a casual extension of his foot. The brushed-steel doors closed an inch from Loki's nose. He glared at his reflection. He was beginning to loathe this weak, useless body; he loathed it more when he realized that Romanoff and Barton were content to leave him on the floor until the elevator reached its destination.

"I don't blame them," memory-Kate said, sitting in the corner, looking at her nails. "You were pretty awful, honestly." She looked over her bent knees. "You continue to be awful."

_Shut up._

The doors opened. Romanoff and Barton hauled him to his feet. He refused to walk, so they dragged him to—of all places—the middle of what looked like a lounge, then deposited him on a couch. It wasn't the room he'd thrown Tony Stark out of; this one looked out over a different view of the city, and it was a quarter of the size—an informal gathering space, he realized as he looked around, in middle of living quarters, or something that would become living quarters. The walls had been painted in neutral colors to start with, but squares of blue tape marked test-areas of different shades of paint. Loki looked at Barton and Romanoff: the former watching him with the clear desire to use the pistol hanging loosely in his right hand, the latter texting from her seat on the back of a loveseat, apparently uninterested in Loki or Barton.

"Hope they fix Kate," memory-Kate said, sitting on the back of the sofa next to Loki in a pose that imitated Romanoff. She put her chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee. "Or we're gonna be talking _a lot._ "

_I will cut you out of my head._

"Oh, come on, am I really that bad?" memory-Kate said, dropping her hands to her knees as she turned to look down at him. "I'm not saying anything that part of you isn't thinking."

_I prefer privacy in my own thoughts._

"You mean you don't like it when Thanos pops in? Like this?" Kate said, and suddenly the massive Titan filled the room to the ceiling. He smiled down at Loki.

"Congratulations on finding your toothpick," he said, his deep voice sending vibrations through the floor. "It will be very useful to you here, on Earth, while my Chitauri lay waste to Asgard." His blue eyes seemed to glow brighter. "I do hope you'll join me to see your homeworld destroyed. If not," he shrugged, "I'll find you later. I owe Earth a return visit anyway."

"Loki?"

Romanoff was watching him. Thanos was gone. Loki cursed silently and glared at the Widow. She raised an eyebrow, then swung her leg over the back of the couch and stalked out of the room. She didn't go far; Loki heard a clank, then she came back into the room holding a handful of pretzels and a bottle of water. She put a pretzel in her mouth, opened the bottle of water, handed it to Barton, then stared at Loki and crunched through the pretzel while Barton downed half the water. She plucked the bottle out of his hand when he paused for breath, climbed back onto the couch, slurped from the bottle, then proceeded to chew loudly while staring at Loki, her eyes as dull and uninterested as a cow's. He held her gaze as she crunched through the whole handful, his fists tightening with each infuriating mastication. _Gods_ , mortals were disgusting.

"Heard you just got back from Sweden," she said when she finished, and clapped her hands together so hard that crumbs sprayed into Loki's lap. "Good flight?"

He looked at the crumbs on his thighs, noticing as he did that Kate had bled on his pink pants. Irritating. "No one died, much to my disappointment." He raised his eyes to Romanoff and let a smirk grow on his face. "Interrogation by snack food? How childish, Natasha. I thought your training gave you more sophisticated techniques to use on subjects you aren't allowed to torture." He let the smirk turn into a leer. "Perhaps you could seduce me into telling you everything you want. Agent Barton wouldn't mind supervising, would he?"

Romanoff looked at Barton. "He's on to us, Clint. Damn. What ever shall we do."

The archer's tense body language eased slightly. "Time to bring on the pistachios, Nat."

Loki rolled his eyes. Beside him, memory-Kate sighed.

"It's going to be a long night, isn't it?" she said.


	29. Chapter 29

He hadn't truly believed it until he saw them together in one room: his brother, sneering and mocking with a face that wasn't his; Kate the mortal swearing back at him, her Midgardian words tripping off an Asgardian tongue. He'd told the others what Kate had told him, had talked with them as they planned their search for Loki, but he hadn't really believed that his brother wasn't his brother—that the person who looked like Loki, who'd been outlawed for Loki's crimes, who'd been tortured for Loki's betrayal . . . wasn't Loki. Maybe he was acting, maybe he was mad, but _not-_ Loki—

How? How had he been so blind?

Banner attended to Kate with Stark and Rogers for assistants. Thor stood in the doorway of the isolation room and watched them, telling himself he'd only be in the way if he stepped in. Banner had proven himself a skilled healer, and though Midgard's medicine sometimes seemed crude, Thor's own knowledge was limited to battlefield aid—stopping blood, splinting limbs, knowing the difference between a fatal injury and one which allowed for hope. He would only be in the way.

_"I can help her."_ It was true, if Loki's magic worked despite his change in form; and it seemed to work. Thor looked at the knife, resting innocuously on the counter, and flexed his hand without thinking. Just touching the grip had burned his skin with an intensity that had made him search his palm for blisters. Loki had worked the same one-thing-into-another trick on the Midgardian authorities, according to Romanoff; apparently Midgardians required certain documents to travel between countries, and Loki had used illusion to trick the officials who would otherwise have turned him back.

One thing into another.

He who had known Loki for centuries, who would a year ago have sworn that he knew Loki better than anyone but Frigga or Loki himself . . . he'd been tricked.

No, worse: he'd tricked himself. Kate had told them that she and Loki had expected to be found out quickly—within a day. But Thor had turned his back on Loki. He'd taken Loki home and handed him to Odin and then he'd run, taking the excuse of being needed on Alfheim to abandon his brother, even when Kate had begged him for help in letters written in her own blood.

Thor turned away from the isolation room, unable to bear the sight of his failure. He walked through the lab stations and past machines of obscure purpose and archaic design until he reached a bank of windows. He looked, but didn't see a light switch.

"Jarvis?" he said aloud.

"Yes, sir?" The electronic voice responded immediately.

"Would you turn down the lights, please?"

"Certainly, sir."

When the lights dimmed, the city appeared on the other side. Windows and signs glowed like all the stars had fallen and carpeted Midgard. It was strange, Thor thought, not to see the constellations, even the foreign constellations of Midgard; but there was a loveliness to these stars, too. He wondered what Jane would make of the sight. Would it make her impatient to return to her New Mexico, her unclouded skies and wide horizons, or would she pluck some surprising insight from what she saw, some odd Midgardian theory that took what he knew of the universe and turned it on its edge?

He missed her.

Gods, he missed her.

Thor lifted his eyes. _Let me be like a king, even for one moment_ , he prayed. _Let me be unselfish and wise and clear-eyed just once, and then perhaps I can hope to be a good king someday._

But no. He thought of a clever, sweet mortal woman when he should have been thinking of the advantages of marrying Dofri's heir; he had let himself be blinded by guilt when Kate had asked for his help; he had underestimated his trickster brother _again._ Thor had failed. Over and over and over.

Deliberate steps warned him that another approached. In the glass, the ghost of Rogers appeared and paused behind him. Thor straightened.

"Dr. Banner stopped the bleeding. He's—she's going to be fine." Rogers paused. "You all right, Thor?"

_I am the greatest fool who ever lived._

Thor swallowed and turned. "I am," he said. He made himself meet the mortal's eyes. "How do the others fare with Loki?"

Rogers' mouth twitched. "I think Romanoff is enjoying herself," he said.

Thor knew that he should rejoin them. They all needed to know if Loki and Kate were being honest about threats to their worlds, and Thor had the most experience picking Loki's truths from his lies. But his feet refused to take him back to that room—that room where a woman who wore his brother's face lay battered half to death because he wouldn't listen; where he must watch his brother either spinning new yarns of deceit or warning them of yet another enemy.

"You weren't the only one they fooled, Thor," Rogers said, his blue eyes sympathetic. "You heard what Sullivan told us earlier. She was trying to buy him time."

Thor's jaw tightened on the disagreement he would have voiced. Rogers noticed. Sympathy turned into resignation, and he stepped to the side. Thor retraced his path through the lab, back to the isolation room. The glass door was closed; just outside, Stark and Banner stood in front of a monitor displaying images of Barton, Romanoff, and Loki. Inside the isolation room, Loki laid still and pale.

_Kate_ , Thor reminded himself. Loki was five floors above them, and Kate was in the bed; somehow it was easier to see Loki in a stranger's body than it was to see the stranger in Loki's body.

Stark turned as they approached. "Your brother's crazy," he said. Thor glared. Stark's eyebrows rose and he unfolded one arm to hold his hand out to Banner. "He said it, not me."

Banner looked at Stark, startled, before turning to Thor and Rogers with an apologetic expression. "That's not what I said—"

"It's all right," Roger said, giving Stark a disapproving look. "Thor knows that Stark enjoys provoking people."

Thor opened his mouth to speak for himself, but Banner jumped in before he could.

"I said that Loki's _hallucinating_ , not that he's crazy," he said. Thor and Rogers looked at him sharply. Stark just looked smug. Banner pointed his glasses at the monitor. "He's seeing something—or maybe it's a couple somethings—on the couch next to him and up near the ceiling."

Rogers looked at Thor. "Is there anything that Loki could see that wouldn't be visible to the human eye?"

Stark shook his head before Thor could speak. "I had Jarvis analyze the video and the room atmospheric data. There's nobody in there but Barton, Natasha, Loki, and Loki's ego."

Thor's stomach sank.

"Agent Romanoff caught it, too," Banner said. "She hasn't said anything." He looked at Thor. "She's getting on his nerves, but he's not giving up anything we don't know already."

A long silence fell. Rogers was the first to speak.

"What's our play, Thor?"

On the monitor, Romanoff chewed, looking bored, while Barton flicked something small and white at Loki's face. The restraints on his brother's wrists dug into his flesh as he clenched his fists, his shoulders hunched as if he would have liked to leap at the archer.

_I can help her._

Thor's jaw tightened. "We give him what he wants," he growled. He spun on his heel and strode toward the elevator, leaving the other Avengers looking at each other in surprise. He reached the elevator and pressed the call button.

"Well, what the hell does he want?" Stark called after him.

The doors opened, and Thor stepped through. He looked back at Rogers, Banner, and Stark, then beyond them, to the isolation room, and spoke a single word before the doors closed.

"Kate."

\--

_Eight hours earlier:_

They had questioned her twice: once after Stark had taken her hand and lifted her from the floor, and a second time after Banner and Stark had patched her together. The first time she had stuttered and shivered, so afraid and exhausted that she was barely understandable; the second time, the mortals' pain-abating medicines had slurred her words and slowed her thoughts. Her responses to both sets of questions had been largely the same: she was Kate Sullivan, a mortal woman from Albany, New York; she'd met Loki a few days ago and helped him, knowing nothing of his true nature; on the day of the Battle of New York, she had come to the city and met him by chance; when he convinced her that Earth was in danger, she agreed to change bodies with him.

Romanoff had led the questioning, as she had been the most successful facing Loki in the past, but it had quickly become clear to more than Stark that the person Thor had brought back from Asgard wasn't Loki. Where Loki insulted and attacked, Kate was resigned; where Loki blustered to cover fear, Kate was openly intimidated by all the Avengers, visibly suppressing flinches when anyone raised his voice. There was a wide-eyed quality to her that reminded Thor of Loki as a boy, so many centuries ago; an openness that betrayed her when she tried not to answer a question.

Eventually, Romanoff had sighed and turned to the others. With a flickering of looks, the Avengers had accepted that Kate would give them no more information. Thor had leaned over her. "We will find Loki," he had said. "We'll bring him back, and we'll make sure you're returned to your body."

Kate had nodded, sleepy-eyed, but as the Avengers shuffled out of the tiny room, she had grabbed his hand. He looked at her, then the others, then back at her; she had let go of his hand, but there was an intensity in her eyes that hadn't been there before as she moved her head a fraction left, then back. _Not them_.

_Is this you, Loki? Is this the trickery we've been waiting for?_ Banner cast a curious look back, the last one out of the room, and Thor nodded at him before turning to Kate—to Loki?

"Kate? What is it?"

"There's something you need to know about Loki."

"I'll call the others," he said, but she shook her head again.

"Not them. _You_."

Thor frowned, then waited as Kate licked her lips and shifted on the bed.

"Loki . . . all of this . . . it's not what you think it is." She met his eyes, and in their green depths, Thor saw a desperation to be understood. "This wasn't about taking over Earth. It was about protecting Asgard. Keeping it safe. I'm not . . . excusing what he did." Her voice strengthened, and her eyes narrowed. "He's an arrogant, racist jerk who thinks he's smarter than everyone, and what he did to Earth . . . someone needs to kick his ass for that." She swallowed. "But he's not evil, Thor. He . . . where he ended up, after he fell—there were no good choices. There were the Chitauri, and there was pain, and there was the choice of dying or taking the long shot—taking the chance that he could cripple the Chitauri invasion from within, slow it down enough that someone could step up to stop them. Someone like SHIELD. Someone like _you._ "

Kate was leaning forward in the bed, her eyes intent on his, the monitor behind her silently registering the rise in her heart rate. She wanted him to believe her. Maybe she needed him to believe her.

"He knew you'd come for Midgard," she said. "He knew you'd come to protect Jane, and Darcy and Selvig, Puente Antigua, Agent Coulson . . . He knew you'd die for them." She swallowed, her eyes gleaming. "You were his hope, Thor," she whispered. "He was counting on you."

_He was counting on you._

His hands curled slowly into fists. _It's what you want to believe_ , he told himself. _It's what you want to hear._ "And you know this how?" he asked, the tightness in his throat making the words sound harsher than he meant them. "Because Loki told you so? He lies, Kate. If he believed it would sway you—"

Kate was already shaking her head, a lopsided smile on her face. "Thor, I know because _I've been him_." The smile shook and turned into a grimace. "I have his memories. I have his _thoughts._ " She waved at her head, her eyes turned almost panicky. "It's a mess. It's fucking mess up here." She lowered her hand, some of the panic fading. "I'm not saying he's sane. Or right." She shook her head. "Or even that he wasn't tempted for a while. I'm not saying that he's not a flawed, fucked-up, violent, dangerous son of a bitch." She swallowed and stared into Thor's eyes. "I'm saying that there are a couple of things that Loki loves. One's Asgard. One's you. And that's—that enough to make him decent, in the end. Not good," she shook her head, "he's—he's not a good guy, but there's good in him. He's not all monster. Not all."

"'Not all monster,'" Thor repeated, and wished he could laugh. "Such praise for my brother."

The pleading left her face, and hardness replaced it. "He's not a monster," she said, her voice flat. "But I met a few on Asgard." Her eyes burned. "Some of them were frost giants. Some weren't."

Thor opened his mouth to put her in her place, but Kate cut him off.

"Odin didn't even give me a chance to speak before he cast me out. To a _mob_ , Thor. Fucking _mob justice._ If the frost giants hadn't grabbed me, I would have been surrounded and strung up like—like something out of the fucking _thirties_. That's your Asgard? Your beacon of light to the universe?" She was shaking, her heart rate almost double; her hand trembled when she pointed at Thor. "I might be a puny mortal with—with the lifespan of a fly, compared to you," she said, her voice low at first, then rising. "But I will tell you this: no one deserves that. _No one._ Not Loki. Not the worst criminal ever." Her lips stayed parted for a moment, her jaw trembling, before she closed her mouth and clenched her teeth, her eyes gleaming with furious tears.

Thor bit back the retorts he wanted to make. Kate glared at him for a moment before sinking back into the raised back of the bed, pale. When she blinked, tears streaked her cheeks.

_She's emotional,_ Thor told himself. _She's being influenced by Loki; she doesn't think she is, but she is._ He made himself turn away without replying, pushing away the nettlesome thought that whispered, _you're angry because she's right_.

"There's good in him," she whispered as Thor left, and it sounded like a wish as much as a statement.

\--

Thor closed his eyes as the elevator rose and prayed for forgiveness. But it wasn't forgiveness if you asked for it in advance, was it? No; it was asking the gods to sanction what could not be sanctioned. _Please let Loki be good_ , he prayed instead. _Please let him be the man I thought he was once. Let Loki be good, so that I need not do evil to one who does not deserve it._

The doors opened. He stepped out. Romanoff had been warned, somehow; Barton's hand went to his gun when he heard the doors open, but Romanoff only looked at him with shadowed eyes, like a lioness watching a lion approach her kill. Loki turned toward him when Thor was halfway to the couch.

"Ah, brother. I forgot to ask how your side—"

Thor grabbed his collar and lifted him bodily from the couch, cutting off the rest of what Loki might have said. Barton lunged toward them and was stopped by Natasha's outstretched hand. Loki fumbled to get his bare feet under him before he could be dragged, managing to regain his balance by the time Thor had turned toward the elevator.

"Better, then. And how are Odin and—"

Thor let go of Loki with a shove, sending him stumbling against the wall by the elevators, and jabbed the call button for the elevator.

"Do be gentle, brother, I'm only borrowing this body," Loki said. Thor grabbed the front of Loki's jacket.

"You're giving it back."

Loki shrugged and smiled. "Of course, eventually—"

"Now."

Loki tilted his head. "Have you changed your mind about letting me heal Kate? Then it will only be a few days before she's strong enough—"

The elevator doors opened and Thor shoved Loki inside. "You're giving her body back now." He jabbed the appropriate button without letting go of Loki and glared at him as the doors closed. "You won't hold her hostage any longer."

"Hostage?" Loki mock-protested, raising his eyebrows, and opened his mouth to say more. Thor shoved him into the elevator wall, cutting him off.

"Kate said that you had your reasons for invading Midgard. She said you made the only choice you could; that you were trying to protect Asgard."

Loki raised his eyebrows and smiled faintly. "And you believed her?"

Thor tightened his grip on Loki's collar, feeling like his own throat was closing. "She believes in you," he growled. "She said you were a decent man. That there's good in you. _Prove it."_

For a moment, there was only silence between them. Loki raised his chin.

"Or?"

Thor swallowed hard as his stomach dropped. "Or I'll take you back to Asgard. You will face the justice you avoided, and I . . ." Loki stared at him with unblinking brown eyes. Thor swallowed again and finished. "I will spend the rest of my life and hers atoning for what you did to her."

Loki's eyes narrowed. "So noble."

Thor growled, but before he could chastise Loki, the doors opened behind him. He spun and shoved Loki through first, then marched him to the isolation room and through the now-open door, past Stark and Banner and Rogers, watching with various degrees of shock on their faces. "Jarvis, close the door," Thor said.

"Yes, sir," the computer said, and the glass door slid shut.

"Lock it."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you don't have the authority—"

" _Lock the door, Jarvis_."

The computer didn't answer for a moment. On the other side of the glass, Thor saw Stark speaking; then the door clicked.

"The door is locked, sir."

Loki stood beside Kate's bed, hands pinioned behind his back, watching Thor warily. In the bed, Kate lay unmoving. The monitors around her registered her continued existence in numbers that ticked up and down, lines that drew peaks and valleys. Her chest rose and fell beneath the white sheet.

"You think that when I've returned to my body, I'll believe you when you and your little mortal friends threaten to torture me," Loki said, his borrowed voice low and soft. "You think you're doing her a favor, ripping her out of the body she's run and fought and suffered in." He raised his eyebrows. "You're not, Odinson." He tipped his head toward her. "These wounds need to heal, or they'll be a part of her forever."

"You're stalling," Thor rumbled.

Loki opened his mouth to protest and sighed instead. "Why do I even bother trying to explain," he said, and turned his back to Thor, revealing the handcuffs. "You're going to have to remove these."

Thor stared at Loki's shoulders. They were straight and relaxed and confident; not even a bit of hesitation showed. _Was he right? Would Kate be harmed if she and Loki returned to their bodies before the wounds of Loki's body healed?_ Thor wished he could ask Frigga—it was likely her magic, after all, that Loki had used.

But Frigga wasn't here. There was only Thor, and Loki, and Kate; and the only one in the room who truly knew what could happen was Loki.

The handcuffs were meant for mortals. Thor snapped the chain that connected them easily, leaving the bracelets dangling from Loki's wrists. His brother turned and lifted an eyebrow at him, raising his upturned hands.

"I don't imagine Natasha will appreciate you breaking her handcuffs," he purred. "She might have intended to use them tonight."

"Stop stalling, Loki," Thor growled. Loki sighed and rolled his eyes before turning to Kate. For a moment, he just looked down at her; then he sank down onto the edge of the bed, turning to let one foot dangle while the other stayed on the floor. He reached out and brushed Kate's hair back from her face.

"Wake up, little one," he said, his voice softening. "It's time to wake up."

Eyes still closed, Kate turned her face into Loki's hand. Loki brushed one dark thumb over the bruised planes of Kate's cheeks, then whispered words that Thor couldn't make out. Kate turned her head away, but Loki kept his hand against her face. As Thor watched, Kate's skin began to lighten, and familiar angular planes rose like rocky outcroppings from a receding tide. She frowned in her sleep and flinched away from Loki's hand. He didn't let her escape; with the hand that wasn't cupping her cheek, he dragged his finger across her lips. Her whole body twitched upward.

"Loki . . ." Thor said.           

"Shhhh," Loki said, and lifted his finger from her lips. The tears left by the frost giants' stitches were pink, healing lines. He wrapped his fingers across the bruise the giants' noose had left across Kate's neck. At his whisper, she let out a strangled cry and thrashed against his hand, eyes still closed.

"Loki!" Thor said, taking a step forward only to stop at the intensity in Loki's voice.

"You want me to take my body back, Thor? Then I have to make some repairs. You want it to happen now, then those repairs have to be fast," Loki said, not looking at Thor. Kate grimaced and let out a whine, trying to writhe away from Loki's hand, though she was still apparently unconscious. "Fast is unnatural. Fast is painful." He shot a look over his shoulder at Thor, real anger gleaming in his eyes for the first time. "Remember that you asked for this, Thor, when both of us are screaming in pain."

He turned back to Kate and released her throat. She was breathing heavily, her head turned as if she wanted to escape the hand that Loki still pressed against the side of her face. Overhead, Stark's monitors flashed warnings about her increased heart rate. Loki smoothed Kate's hair back from her head, whispering words that Thor couldn't make out, though they sounded like reassurance. Some of the distress faded from her face, and Loki gently guided her cheek off the pillow where she'd pressed it.

"Easy, little one, easy," he whispered, and cupped her face in his hands. "Easy," he repeated, then bent his head low and kissed her on the lips: a kiss that started out sweet and simple, a press of lips against lips, but became something more sensual when Kate opened her mouth and Loki leaned in, turning his head until Thor could see nothing but the curls of Loki's hair. Kate's arm lifted tentatively, as if she meant to hold Loki, then stopped mid-air. Her fingers stiffened.

That small gesture was all the warning Thor had before every electronic monitor began screeching in warning and Loki fell to his knees, then curled into a knot on the floor. Kate shot upright in the bed, hands curled into claws against her chest, and let loose a string of Asgardian curses.

No. Not Kate. _Loki._

"Gods _damn_ you, Thor," he snarled. He glared, green eyes nearly glowing with rage. "You and your gods-damned impatience." A wave of pain seemed to hit him, and he grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut, drawing one knee up under the sheets as he bent forward. "Stop staring at me like a cow and _see to Kate,_ " he said between gritted teeth.

Prodded into movement, Thor went to the mortal woman's side. When he turned her onto her back, panic went through him like lightning: her eyes were wide, her mouth open, but she wasn't breathing.

"Banner!" he roared, but the door to the isolation room was already opening. Banner and Rogers entered and knelt on opposite sides of Kate; Banner tore her camisole apart, while Rogers set a plastic box beside her and opened it, revealing wires and a display.

"Thor, out," Banner commanded as he swiftly attached a pair of leads to Kate's chest.

"But—"

Stark grabbed him by the arm and pulled him outside the door. Loki watched from the bed, grimacing and flinching every few seconds.

"Clear," Banner said, then Kate thrashed on the floor and was still again. Thor watched, transfixed, as Banner bent to breathe into her mouth, then Rogers leaned over, laced his fingers, and pressed his palms into her sternum.

"If she dies, I'll kill you, Odinson," Loki rasped. He swept furious green eyes over the room. "I'll kill _all of you._ "

"Clear," Banner said. Rogers lifted his hands, the machine beeped, and Kate's back arched off the floor. This time, she gasped. Banner leaned over her. "Kate? It's Dr. Banner. Can you hear me? Can you say something?"

Kate wheezed, then sputtered: "What the _fuck?_ "

She started to sit up, but Banner stopped her; she lay on the floor, wild-eyed, while he checked her pulse. Thor sighed in relief and looked to Loki. His brother was watching Banner and Kate with hungry eyes, shivering, his arms crossed over his chest.

Thor looked to Kate, then Loki, then back again. The mortal was swearing, starting soft and getting louder, her face screwed into an expression halfway between disgust and panic. "Where the fuck are my shoes?" she said, sitting upright despite Banner's attempts to make her lay back down. She lifted an arm in confusion, then looked down at her bare midriff. "What the hell? These aren't my clothes."

"Well, that wasn't so bad," Stark muttered. Thor gave him an incredulous look.

"Fuck!" Kate swore. Thor turned, and was alarmed to see Kate curled into a ball, swearing and crying. "—it fucking burns—" was all he could make out as Banner tried to get her to uncurl and Rogers hovered over her with a bewildered expression.

"I told you," Loki muttered. Thor shot his brother an irritated look that turned worried when he saw Loki laying down on his side, curling into a position that mirrored Kate's. "Idiot," Loki added, and closed his eyes.

The elevator doors opened and Romanoff and Barton appeared, holding pretzels and a cup of coffee, respectively. "Did we miss the party?" Natasha asked, surveying the room, and popped a pretzel in her mouth.


	30. Chapter 30

This time Kate was ready when she felt Loki call her out of the dark.

She came up poised to fight, prepared to punch that smug bastard right in the nose, but the first thing she felt was softness.

A soft, slow, gentle touch of lip to lip that reminded her of the first time she kissed a woman, the first time she realized kissing could be something other than a dry peck or a slobbery fight.

It was a patient kiss. A waiting kiss. A kiss that announced itself and stopped. The kiss of someone listening for her reply.

She tilted her chin. _Tell me more._

The kiss did. Lips parted, covering more of her mouth—still soft and slow and careful. They explored the borders, the corners, the peaks and mounds and secret creases of her mouth, patient as a scholar, their thorough attention making her intensely aware of each minute feature of her own geography. She could feel herself rising up within her skin, swelling in it, turning every nerve into a sparking wire.

She opened her mouth. _More._ And the kiss gave her more: the tentative touch of a tongue tracing the seam between them, a hint of breath, a sudden sense of need and urgency and anxious anticipation.

_Yes_ , she answered, _yes, yes, yes_. She wanted more than the kiss; she wanted to feel the rest of the body attached to those lips, she wanted to draw that patient attention down over her chest and between her legs, she wanted her surging blood to meet its match, and she reached out, ready to take what she wanted—

Crowdrunfeardarkboatwatercotcloseplaneliesforeignwordstrainsliespursespocketscasesphoneliescoffeeclotheslieslibraryofficeliestaxitrainpoliceliesinterrogationliesplaneliesairportliesrubbleliesstreetliesbuildingslieslieslieslieslieslieslies

 

pain. 

 

So much pain.

 

\---

She woke to gray light. It filtered through white shades that covered a pair of windows on the wall next to the bed. Queen bed. Crisp sheets and a woven blanket. Bedside table: glass of water, empty chair nearby. Two doors at the foot of the bed, both closed: a sliding door, as for a closet, and one that swung, yellow light outlining the bottom. Another door opposite the windows.

Nothing on the walls. Not a photo, not a painting, not a fire exit map.

She curled her fingers. Felt nails scrape against the blanket.

Longer nails than Loki's.

She stopped breathing. Lifted her hand.

Short-fingered, square-palmed. Unscarred. Unburned.

Her hand.

Hand opened. Hand closed. Each finger responding when she thought of it: one, two, three, four, five. Ready for a piano scale.

Hand closed. Fingers wrapped tight.

Ready for a fight.

A cough from behind the door made her flinch. Someone was in there. Sound of toilet paper rolling.

She threw aside the blanket and slipped out of the bed. Bare feet touched short-napped carpet. She was wearing loose-fitting knit pants with a wide elastic waist and a cotton t-shirt cut for a man, billowing over her stomach. Not her clothes.

The door that wasn't a sliding door and wasn't the bathroom door opened when she turned the handle. The hallway outside was brighter. A window at the end of the hall said: early morning, cloudless day.

Toilet flush. Water running.

She stepped into the hall, pulled the door closed behind her silently. Look left, right: three more identical doors. One end of the hallway: a turn, impossible to see around without getting closer. Sounds of scraping chairs. Spoon on bowl or fork on plate. Faint smell of eggs. Voices.

She went toward the window. Outside: tall buildings. Tall _human_ buildings.

She was back on Earth.

She looked down at herself. Her unmarked, unharmed self.

She didn't remember these clothes.

She didn't remember this hall.

She didn't remember that room.

She remembered—

_Hands holding her mouth closed while other hands forced a needle through her lips. Breaking her leg. The weight of chains. Travelling across space—_

Her back hit the wall with a soft thump. She winced. Her ribs hurt. Because—

_—if she dies I'll kill you Odinson—_

_—clear—_

_—Kate it's Dr. Banner—_

Her heart beat against the spread fingers of her hand, pressed to her chest. She'd felt it stop. She'd felt it stop when—

_—Banner—_

_—Out—_

_—I'll kill all of you—_

_—can you hear me—_

The door of her room opened. Next to the window was an alcove. She stepped into the alcove and listened.

Someone left her room. Took a step toward her, then a step away, toward the bend in the hallway that led to the sounds of people and food and mornings. A voice rose in question.

Someone was looking for her. Someone would come back.

In the alcove was a door marked _Stairs_. The handle turned. She stepped inside, onto cool, smooth concrete, and pulled the door closed softly. Fluorescent lights lit everything in yellow-green. The number 71 was painted on the wall.

_—can you say something—_

She started to descend, slowly at first. Movement required concentration. Concentration pushed her thoughts back. She descended faster, faster; her feet barely brushed the concrete steps.

_Down down down down down—_

A door opened above her. "Kate?" someone called.

Panic like poison shooting through every vein. She reached a landing with a door: 66. She pushed through, took two steps, and stopped.

White. Steel. Machines with digital faces, machines that looked like they spun and shook and deconstructed, like they could take her down to her individual molecules—

She turned back to the door to the stairs, but it wouldn't open to her. The handle turned, but it wouldn't open. She threw her shoulder against it, once, twice, but it was locked. Would stay locked.

She spun in a too-fast circle, stopping when she saw the elevator. It would take her down; except that elevators could be halted. Elevators could be recalled.

There had to be other stairs. Unlocked stairs.

She put her back to the closed-off avenues of escape. The stairs would be on a different side of the building from these. Opposite, maybe. She searched, feeling the memories seeping back, _fear and darkness and fire and falling—_

Clattering footsteps behind her. Someone was coming down the stairs.

In the middle of the room were solid lab benches. She ran lightly, on the balls of her feet, and dropped to her knees, sliding into cover just as the door opened behind her. She froze, not daring to rustle.

"Kate?"

Boots on concrete floor. She could hear the tread as someone rolled his foot into each step, cautious, listening. She stopped breathing.

Bare feet slapped, running from the opposite side of the lab to somewhere away. "Kate!" someone shouted, and ran. Door slam.

She blinked. The someone following her had thought he'd seen her. Thought he was chasing her.

She rose slowly.

In a glass room across the lab, Loki watched.

He'd created an illusion of her, to draw off the someone that had followed her.

She marched across the lab. The door opened as she approached; she caught a glimpse of someone in the glass and didn't recognize it as herself until it was gone. Loki watched her from the bed like a snake on a rock, utterly still. The bruises had faded from his face and neck. His lips were whole and healed. But his arms were still wrapped with bandages; the fat lump of the air cast mounded the blankets at the end of the bed.

She stepped inside. The door closed.

"Lock the door, Jarvis," Loki said, but it was Thor's voice that came out of his mouth.

She waited for the quip. The cutting observation. The casual insult that would leave her breathless for a moment, the way a slip of the knife could open her knuckle and leave her gaping at how quickly flesh gave before steel.

"It seems you've become my conscience, Kate Sullivan."

She froze. The beginnings of a smile played at the corners of Loki's mouth.

"I kept seeing you, in Uppsala. In New York. Chiding me."

The hint of mockery in the last two words set her free.

"Chiding you?" she repeated. " _Chiding you?_ "

She was at his bedside without remembering how she'd gotten there, hands wrapped around his long white throat, not squeezing, but hard against his chin, enough to tip his head back. He didn't fight back, just watched her, green eyes merry.

"You told me my duty, Kate, as a prince of Asgard. Called me a selfish, arrogant kinslayer. Said I'd failed to protect Midgard as I should have."

He'd seen her. The way that she'd seen him. She stared into his eyes, and the amusement faded from his face slowly.

"You told me how to survive on Asgard," she whispered. "You told me that I was lying to myself. That I was you."

His pulse throbbed beneath her fingers. She studied the face she'd seen reflected back at her, the face that had been hers. One hand rose from his throat. Traced the narrow line of his lower lip, half-expecting to feel it herself.

He closed his eyes and leaned into the caress, catlike.

Desire lobbed a firebomb between her legs.

She backed away. His eyes stayed closed. The sound of her breathing filled the room.

_You hate him,_ she reminded herself. _You hate him, and what he did to New York, and what he did to you. He's a murderous manipulative psychopath—_

He still hadn't opened his eyes again.

_If she dies, I'll kill you, Odinson._

She backed up until she was touching the door, her thoughts in chaos. Behind her, she heard a voice. Loki's eyes opened. They went to her, then beyond, then back to her again as the door slid open. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She clenched her teeth.

"Damn you," she whispered, and watched his smile widen.


	31. Chapter 31

Agent Barton herded her back upstairs after making sure that Loki wasn't going anywhere, and once Dr. Banner checked her over, the Avengers parked her at the dining table where she'd heard them eating breakfast before. She ate a few bites of yogurt, then occupied herself with peeling an orange and stripping every veiny scrap of pith off its segments while the team talked in the kitchen. In sight, but out of the conversation, she accumulated a tiny furry mound of orange-fuzz.

"—but what's our backup plan if it turns out he's right? I agree, I don't think he's telling us everything, but—"

"—and that assumes the Chitauri _come back_ to Earth—"

"—our ability to move our forces is limited by the damage to the Bifrost—"

"—the time scale? Assuming the Tesseract stays locked up on Asgard—"

Kate looked down at the naked orange segments. _The Tesseract_. She arranged the orange segments into a circle, then nudged them into a spiral. _Locked up on Asgard_. In the Treasure Vault. The same vault where the Casket of Ancient Winter was locked up.

She put a segment of orange in her mouth, but when she bit down, the juice was bitter, not sweet. She spat it into the bowl she'd used for the yogurt, then looked up, feeling guilty over her table manners. No one in the kitchen seemed to notice.

"They're not paying attention to you," Loki said. She suppressed her startled flinch and looked across the table. He sat in his full armor, examining the back of a cornflakes box. "You're nothing to them."

She clenched her teeth. _I thought I was your conscience_. _Your split personality._

His green eyes flashed toward her, then went back to the box.

"Maybe I'm your good sense. Reminding you of your place."

Her jaw started to ache. How had she ever found this arrogant bastard attractive? He was a jerk. He was mean. He was . . .

He looked at her, sidelong and sly.

"Kate," he said in that damned deep voice. "Please. Lying to your hallucination? How unseemly."

She looked down at her orange slices. Her stupid, stupid orange slices. If she could have run away right then, she would have; but she had a feeling one of the Avengers would come after her.

"Go out into the lounge," Loki said. He picked an apple out of the fruit bowl in the center of the table, threw it into the air, and caught it. "Sit with your back to them. Then lay down. Give them enough time to notice, then leave. Even you can manage that quietly, I think."

She thought about it without looking up. A part of her was tempted; she was tired of sitting here like a child waiting for the adults to make a decision. _But is that you, or is that Loki?_ she asked herself.

A loud crunch startled her. Loki had taken a bite of the apple. He chewed and swallowed, his long white throat moving obscenely, then he licked his thumb from root to tip, never breaking eye contact.

"Dick," she muttered, and before she could lose her courage, she stood up, walked out of the dining area, and dropped onto a couch that faced away from the kitchen. The conversation behind her stuttered. She lifted her feet to the edge of the couch and hugged her knees, ignoring the protest of her ribs.

The Tesseract. The Treasure Vault. The Casket of Ancient Winter. Loki showing up in her head again. She closed her eyes.

"You're onto something, Kate," Loki said, settling onto the couch next to her.

"I came out here to get away from you," she whispered.

"Hm." _Crunch_. "I don't think that's going to work."

She let out a sigh, her ribs whimpering. It turned out that having a super-soldier do CPR on you was good, from the point of view of not dying, but not so good when it came to avoiding cracked ribs.

Loki's hand brushed her side. She shivered and opened her eyes. "What are you doing?" she said under her breath, but in a moment, she understood: her chest stopped hurting. She turned her head and stared.

"I'm in your head. So's the pain," Loki said matter-of-factly, and took another bite from the apple. He chewed and swallowed. "I'm not all bad, you know."

Kate made herself look away from Loki. She stared blankly across the room, not really seeing anything. Her fingers crept to her ribs, exploring the long sweep of her bones. They didn't hurt any more, not unless she pressed hard, trying to make them hurt.

That seemed like something that should scare her.

"The Tesseract. The Vault. The Casket of Ancient Winter. Come on, Kate. I can remind you of the dots, but you need to draw the lines," Loki said. _Crunch_. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"That's annoying," she said.

She opened her eyes.

Loki sat with his arm across the back of the couch, watching her, no apple in sight.

"Look how helpful I'm being," he said.

"Give yourself a cookie," she muttered. Loki looked over his shoulder, then back at her.

"They've gotten used to you on the couch. You should lay down now."

The couch wasn't especially long. If she lay down, she'd be putting her head right in Loki's lap.

In her _Loki-hallucination_ 's lap.

Loki patted his leather-covered thigh. "Come on, Kate. I don't exist, remember?"

She clenched her teeth. _He didn't exist._ So why was she even listening to him? Jesus. This was stupid. _So_ stupid. She turned sideways and lowered herself onto the couch. The back was low enough that if she kept her knees bent, the tops poked up; she settled her head on the leather and told herself she only _thought_ it felt like a warm thigh, she only _thought_ she could feel muscles twitching under the back of her head, she only _thought_ she could hear fabric scraping as Loki shifted closer to her . . .

"I'll give you a hint, Kate. She's eight feet tall and even more annoying than me."

Kate froze. _Gerd._ The frost giant who'd tortured her.

"'You were a fool to fail Thanos,'" she repeated. "That's what she said." Her heart raced. _No_. That couldn't mean what she thought it meant. "She talked about the Casket," Kate whispered. "Not the Tesseract."

Loki's thigh tensed under her head. "The Casket and the Tesseract are in the same place," he said. When she looked up, all traces of mockery had left his face.

"She gets the Tesseract, she can bring the Chitauri to Asgard," Kate said. Her heart skipped. "'The ashes of Asgard.' She said something about building a new Jotunheim on the ashes of Asgard."

Loki wasn't looking at her anymore. "Thanos made her an offer," he said. "Like he made me an offer. If she gets to the Tesseract and opens a portal for Thanos, he'll let her rule whatever's left standing."

"We've got to tell them—" Kate said, and started to sit up. Loki put a hand on her shoulder.

"Kate," he said gently. "Tell them what? That you've been talking to your Loki hallucination and you've figured out that the frost giants are working with the Chitauri?" He smoothed a hand lovingly over her forehead. "I'm a ghost in your brain, and _I_ know how implausible that sounds."

Her mouth hung open as she stared at him, feeling irrationally betrayed. He traced the line of her jaw, setting her skin tingling, then drew his finger up over her chin, over the swell of her lip, and—quick as a wingbeat—along the parapet of her open mouth, catching at the corner before he lifted his finger away. She snapped her jaw shut, affronted and aroused at the same time.

"If you're going to leave, now's the time," he said, and then he was gone.

She blinked, getting used to the feel of the couch under her head. Flat. Not round. Not like a thigh at all.

"Dammit, Loki," she whispered, and tried to reassemble her thoughts. The Avengers were talking louder in the kitchen. She rolled onto her side, then slithered onto the floor on her belly. _God, I hope no one comes over here in the next thirty seconds_ , she thought, then army-crawled across the floor and into the hallway.

No one yelled "hey!" or tried to follow her. She paused on her hands and knees, listening, then stood and walked softly down the hallway that led to the room where she'd woken up. She hesitated at the door: maybe her phone was in there.

Her phone, which undoubtedly contained fifteen million messages asking her where the hell she was.

Her stomach sank. How was she going to explain this to Kinsley? Her parents? Her _boss?_

 _Not thinking about that now,_ she told herself firmly, and shoved the anxiety she was feeling to the side. _Not thinking about it, not thinking about it, na na na na na na na, NOT THINKING ABOUT IT_ ,she told herself, and slid past the room toward the alcove by the window. The door to the stairs wasn't locked. She eased it shut behind her.

_Down or up?_

She knew what was down. _Sit and stew, Loki_ , she thought, and began to climb.

It would have made sense to talk to him again—to ask him about the Casket of Ancient Winter, to tell him to evict his damned double from her head. But she was in a mood to be contrary.

 _I'm crazy_ , she told herself. _Can't tell a crazy person what to do_.

She climbed six floors before her legs started to threaten mutiny. At the landing, she opened the door cautiously and blinked at the change in décor. The walls were paneled in expensive-looking wood; the carpet was deep and plush. She stuck a foot out and almost sighed at how nice it felt. Like a _blanket_ , not even like carpet.

But it was colder on this floor. Much colder. And something sounded faintly like . . . wind? She could feel it sucking at the door in her hands.

The details clicked. Stark's penthouse lounge. _That_ was the floor she'd reached.

She chewed on her lip. Stark probably wouldn't appreciate her wandering around his personal pad. And of the Avengers, Stark was the only one she actively liked, other than Thor. And Banner. Dr. Banner was nice, when he wasn't seven feet tall and using her to play whack-a-mole.

 _Kinsley would go for it_ , she thought. Her roommate was utterly incapable of being embarrassed on certain subjects, and her fangirl adoration of Tony Stark was one of them. If Kinsley was here, she'd be through the door in a heartbeat, and probably sniffing Tony Stark's underwear in two.

 _I'm not investigating the boxers/briefs question, but I can tell her what he's got in his bar_ , Kate thought, and slipped through the door—which, on this side, was revealed to be covered in the same fancy paneling as the walls. Abstract paintings hung on the walls, spotlit in soft glows; she found the elevators, and a mini-kitchen that was clearly meant for caterers, not cooks, and then the walls ended and the floor opened up to—

God. What a view.

Where the glass was missing, sunlight came in, bright enough to make Kate squint. She stepped forward, half-hypnotized. The Empire State Building loomed ahead; beyond it was the Hudson River, sparkling in the sun. She could see all the way across lower Manhattan to the financial district, and the lonely spire that marked where the Towers used to stand. The floor was cool beneath her feet as she crossed the lounge.

She'd done the tourist thing in New York twice with friends from out of state, but the last time she'd been this high had been when she was a child, on a school field trip. They'd gone up the Empire State Building, where low-hanging clouds had obscured most of the view. She had liked it—it had felt like being in another world, a magic world of fog and possibility—but this . . . this was . . .

Park Avenue stretched out before her like her own personal highway to the Upper Bay. Sunlight glittered from windows, bright enough to make her eyes water; the buildings lining the streets below were a mix of rooflines and profiles, old, new,  tall, short, brick, concrete, limestone, steel. Heat rose up from the streets, making the edges of the buildings shimmy. She thought about all the people living and working in New York, all the lives being lived below her.

All the lives that had almost ended.

She stood in the middle of Tony Stark's penthouse lounge and felt an overwhelming urge to weep. All this—all that New Yorkers had built over years, over decades—could have been wiped out. Lost. Maybe it was tiny in comparison to Asgard, maybe it was cheap and small and dun, but it was important. It was their lives. It was their legacies—buildings built for children, stories layered on stories, horrors and heartbreaks and new beginnings. And they'd almost lost it.

Loki stood with his hands behind his back, looking out over the city. Kate turned to him. His haughty profile reminded her of the Parthenon marbles even more now than when they'd first met: there was something cold and timeless about him, like he was stone pretending to be human.

"What were you thinking, Loki?" Kate whispered before turning back to the city. "How could you? How _could_ you?"

He didn't answer.

The wind outside the window whipped harder, tugging at Kate's clothes. She took a step back, half-afraid of being sucked out the window, and jumped when Stark's computer spoke.

"Detecting gravitational anomaly," it said. "Anomaly is—"

A person was standing on the landing platform outside where no one had been standing before. Kate's jaw dropped as the new arrival began, with a familiar, jaunty stride, to walk toward the penthouse. Her scaled, lacquered armor was gone, but the headscarf and the long, straight sword remained.

"Fridur?" Kate asked as the elf entered the lounge.

The elf studied Kate for a moment before smiling broadly, revealing— _nope, those hadn't been a nightmare_ —shark-like teeth. "Kate Sullivan!" she said, and strode to her, extending her hand. "Back in your rightful form." Kate held out her hand out of habit. Fridur took her by the wrist and pulled her into a hug, then pushed her away, leaving one hand on Kate's shoulder. "And a comely form it is," she said, looking Kate up and down. She gave Kate's shoulder a friendly slap and let her go. "A much better suit."

"Uh. Hi," Kate said, blinking. "What are you doing here?"

The pleasure on the elf's face dimmed. "I've been sent to retrieve Asgard's princes." She raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement returning to her mouth. "It seems Odin has reconsidered the wisdom of letting Loki the Trickster out of his sight."

 _Letting Loki out of his sight?_ Kate didn't realize she was clenching her fists until Fridur dropped her eyes to Kate's hands, then looked back at her face, her eyebrow inching higher.

"Your anger surprises me, Kate Sullivan," Fridur said, and searched Kate's face with an intensity that would have made her blush under other circumstances.

Kate made herself unclench her hands. _Fridur isn't at fault here_ , she told herself. _She's just the messenger_. "Why?" Kate said, trying to keep her voice under control. "Because I should just forgive and forget? Because Odin All-Father just _accidentally_ punished the wrong person? Because it was the frost giants that tortured me, not the Aesir?"

Fridur rested her hands on her belt. "You feel he wronged Loki?"

"He wronged _me_!" Kate blurted. It wasn't what she meant to say—she didn't know what she meant to say—but once it was out of her mouth, it felt true. She swallowed hard, and when Fridur kept looking at her curiously, she said, her voice lower, "He wronged both of us."

"Us," Fridur repeated, and though Kate knew—or thought she knew—that Fridur was only doing it to draw her out, she bristled anyway. Fridur lifted a hand from her belt in a calming gesture. "Peace, Kate Sullivan. I meant no offense." She let her hand drop and tilted her head. "I am simply surprised. I would not have taken you for a friend of Loki; not after what happened to you."

"I'm not his friend," Kate said immediately. "We have a shared goal." Fridur arched her brow again. "Protecting our worlds from Thanos," Kate clarified.

Fridur nodded. "And how goes your search for a weapon to defeat him?" Her eyes flicked over Kate. "Loki returned from Uppsala, evidently."

The change of subject felt like a distraction, but Kate didn't argue it. She had remembered Fridur's role in getting her out of Asgard, and she was starting to feel guilty for being so confrontational.

"He did," she said. "And he found it. The knife, I mean." Kate paused, then took a deep breath. "Thank you for saving me. For trusting Thor and taking a chance on me. And Loki," she added.

"I am glad I did," Fridur said, her sudden smile surprisingly warm. She extended her hand as if to shake, but instead of taking Kate by the wrist, as she had before, she bent over Kate's hand and kissed it. "The gods themselves would be affronted if so lovely a mortal as yourself had perished at the hands of the giants."

Kate shivered at the touch of Fridur's breath on her hand and felt her heart pound as the elf straightened and smiled at her, a hint of something wicked in her eyes as she noticed Kate's reactions. Kate had a flash of imagination— _that face, that angle, but framed by her thighs—_ and felt her cheeks burn. Behind Fridur, Loki rolled his eyes and let out a huff. "Elves," he muttered.

Before Kate could spontaneously combust with embarrassment and lust, the elevator pinged.

"Right," she said breathlessly. "That's probably the Avengers." She took her hand back from Fridur, who winked.

 _Jesus fucking Christ she has shark teeth, Kate. Do you_ really _want her to eat you out?_ she asked herself, and turned toward the elevators. Thor was the first to appear, Mjölnir in hand, followed closely by Steve Rogers and Tony Stark. As soon as Thor saw Fridur, he hung Mjölnir on his belt and came forward to greet her, hand out, while Tony stopped dead and turned pink. _Glad I'm not the only one who's felt it_ , Kate thought. Steve Rogers followed Thor across the lounge, sparing a disapproving look for Kate before focusing on Fridur.

"—and this is Steve Rogers, another mighty warrior," Thor said.

"How do you do, ma'am," Rogers said, shaking hands with Fridur.

"I am well, Steve Rogers of Midgard," she said, and grinned at him. "This is a fine arm you have. If my time was my own, I would challenge you to the luoti shuaijiao . . ." She looked at Thor, who looked like he had just swallowed a goldfish, and finished ". . . but I have orders."

Rogers let go of Fridur's hand, his brow furrowed. _What's the . . . whatever she said?_ Kate asked Loki. He stood between Thor and Fridur, his knuckles pressed to his mouth.

"It's, ah, a kind of Alfar wrestling match," he said before his grin broke through. "The victor wins the loser's clothes. The prize is meant to be claimed . . . immediately."

Kate blinked, looked at Fridur and Rogers, and blushed. _Elves. Jesus Christ._

"To return to Asgard with yourself and Loki," Fridur said in answer to a question that Kate missed. The humor had disappeared from her voice. "With this act I begin to make amends for the injury I have done to the dignity of Asgard, and so amending do I begin to lift the shame I brought upon the house of Dofri."

Thor started to speak, but cut himself off when Fridur's voice turned formal. Kate felt her stomach drop out.

"Oh, god, I am so sorry, Fridur," she blurted. "I never meant to—if I had known—"

Thor and Rogers looked startled at her interruption; Fridur smiled and set a hand on Kate's shoulder. "Oh, little one," she said, her voice gentle. "I would not choose any other course but the one I did, were I twice as sternly censured." She leaned in, her voice regaining a little of its usual lightness. "My pride is stung, but it will require no bandages to heal."

Fridur was treating her like a child, but Kate didn't care. Affection and gratitude and longing stopped her throat. Fridur must have seen a little of what Kate felt in her eyes, because her smile broadened before she lifted her hand away and turned back to Thor.

"I am permitted a few hours to search for Loki, or to make him ready to travel," she said. "Then I am charged to do all that is necessary to bring both of you with me." She looked Thor in the eye. "If I do not return, it will be considered a further affront to Asgard."

Kate clenched her teeth, trying not to interrupt again. Thor looked like he had indigestion. Rogers wore the gamely attentive face of someone listening to the whoosh of conversation going on over his head.

Stark sauntered over. "Speaking for Midgard, you're welcome to Loki," he said. "He's more trouble than a pack of blondes in Barney's, and not nearly as cute." He reached up to pat Thor on the shoulder, then crossed his arms. "But you're only taking the big guy with you if he wants to go."

Fridur grinned widely, showing her teeth.

"We will go," Thor said quickly. "Both of us." He looked at Stark, then Rogers, who'd sensed the change in mood and lined up with Thor like a Jets-Sharks fistfight was about to break out. "Your support is welcome, my friends, but this is a fracture among the Nine Realms that cannot be allowed to widen."

"My big brother, displaying the faintest comprehension of politics," Loki said, standing behind Kate. "Pinch me, Kate, I think I'm dreaming."

"Where is Loki?" Fridur asked.

"Below," Thor said. He met Fridur's eyes, throwing down an unvoiced challenge. "He has had little time to heal."

"He survived the first journey," Fridur said, then glanced at Kate and corrected herself. " _Kate_ survived the first journey." She looked back at Thor. "I told Odin of his condition. There will be healers ready."

A tiny bit of stiffness left Thor's shoulders. Kate wrapped her arms around herself and tapped her fingers against her ribs, nervousness coiling in her gut. _This is what's supposed to happen,_ she told herself. _Loki and Thor go back to Asgard, they take the knife with them, and when Thanos shows his ugly face, they shank his ass and have a Coke. That's the plan._

"Then, good Fridur, I must collect my brother," Thor said. His gaze sharpened. "Do you wish to accompany me, or will you wait?"

"He's attempting to determine if Fridur has been ordered to secure Loki herself, or if Odin still trusts him to act," Loki whispered in Kate's ear.

"I get it," she muttered. Rogers frowned in her direction.

 _Fuck._ "Oops," Loki said.

"I will wait," Fridur answered. She slid her feet wider and settled her hands on her belt with the attitude of someone settling into her favorite chair. "I will use the time to speak to Kate, if she would allow me."

Kate blinked as four sets of eyes turned in her direction. "Uh," she said. "Sure?"

Thor gave Fridur a tight nod and walked away. Stark raised an eyebrow at Kate before following him; Rogers didn't move. Fridur gave him the shark smile.

"I would speak with Kate alone."

"It's fine," Kate said quickly, though Rogers' suspicious expression hadn't suggested that it was her welfare he was concerned about. "Fridur's a friend."

Rogers' mouth flattened before he looked at Fridur. "Ma'am," he said, and walked across the room. Kate was briefly distracted by the seat of his pants.

Fridur let out a long sigh. "Midgardians," she said, and shook her head. "I forgot how pretty you are."

Kate looked at her, startled, and Fridur smiled at her sidelong—lips closed, this time. Kate held herself tighter. _Do not imagine sex with Fridur, Kate. Don't do it._

Fridur reached over and pinched the hem of Kate's shirt-sleeve between her fingers. "I think these are not your clothes," she said, the smile sliding from her face. Kate swallowed.

"You wanted to talk to me alone about my clothes?"

Fridur's mouth twitched. "Perhaps." She looked Kate up and down. "Perhaps I am worried for you, Kate of Midgard." She let go of Kate's sleeve. "Perhaps I have seen what happens when mortals are drawn into the games of the gods. Perhaps I would offer you assistance, if you wished it."

"What do you mean?"

"You were tortured," Fridur said, and the simplicity of the words made Kate twitch. "Beaten, burned, abused; Loki may bear the marks, but your mind holds the memories. I would not expect the strongest of my guard to continue her life as if nothing had passed." She paused.

"I'm fine," Kate muttered.

"Gods, you're a terrible liar," Loki said from behind her.

Fridur sighed, and for a moment, Kate could feel the centuries of war and leadership and hard decisions that Fridur carried. "I'm fine, really," Kate repeated, trying to be reassuring.

"If I could, I would stay, and be sure of that, Kate of Midgard," she said. "But I fear I may not serve my own desires in this."

Kate bit her lip, then thought, _fuck it. Fuck it. I'll never see her again, if I come off like an arrogant ass, then so what._ "Why?" she asked. "Why do you care?" She shrugged. "I'm a mortal. You're—you live as long as the Aesir, don't you?" She snapped her fingers. "My life'll be over like that. You guys probably have goldfish that live longer than I will."

Fridur's mouth flattened, as if she'd been reminded of something unpleasant. "You have heart," she said. "I will not turn my back on heart, no matter where I find it."

"Heart?" Kate repeated, half-incredulous and half-confused. Fridur's mouth curled in a tiny smile.

"Heart," she said again.

A long silence stretched between them. Kate studied Fridur from her headscarf—geometric patterns that seemed simple at first, but were dizzyingly complex when Kate tried to follow them—to her silk sleeves and wool tunic to her over-the-knee boots.

"Your boots!" Kate said aloud, remembering. Fridur grinned.

"Keep them," she said. "It would please me to think of you wearing them."

Kate blushed, though she wasn’t sure why. Fridur's grin widened, then faded.

"A mind is a delicate construct, Kate; mortal minds, doubly so. Even under the best of conditions, the kind of magic Loki practiced on you has dangers. If you would allow me, I would examine you—ensure that what Loki did left no wounds to fester and blacken."

Kate swallowed. Fridur looked at her with such kindness—such compassion. As if she knew about Loki . . .

"Do you _really_ want someone else poking around in your head?" he said, leaned over her shoulder to whisper in her ear. "What if she starts showing up, too? You, me, Thanos, and Fridur—that's enough for a tea party, Kate. Or what if she decides you're broken? What's going to happen then?"

Kate stifled the urge to turn and tell him to shut up. _There's my answer_ , she thought, and looked at Fridur.

"What—what would you—"

"It won't hurt," she said. She put two fingers to her temple. "I would touch you, and you wouldn't feel a thing. I promise."

"Kate, this is foolish," Loki hissed. "She said it herself, your mind's delicate. She can't promise that you wouldn't feel a thing, she can't promise _anything_."

Kate closed her eyes. "Do it," she said, bracing herself.

Fridur's cool fingertips landed on Kate's temple. "Relax, Kate. You're safe with me. See? Open your eyes."

Kate obeyed. Fridur stood before her, smiling reassuringly, her hands at her sides; but Kate could still feel her fingertips. Fridur's gaze shifted to Kate's side.

"Loki. I thought I'd find you here."

He stepped forward to stand side-by-side with Kate, his armored presence feeling even more real than usual. "This is unwise, Fridur," he snapped.

"Why? Because it means losing your influence over the girl?" Fridur's eyes narrowed. "Why are you lingering here, Loki?"

"I am protecting her!"

"From what, Loki?" Fridur asked, her tone making it clear that she intended to continue to question him. Before she could, though, the penthouse lounge darkened around them, and the roof seemed to disappear into blackness.

"From me," a voice rumbled, and Thanos was there, looming over all three of them. "Fridur Dofrisdotter of Alfheim," he said, in a voice that—Kate assumed—was what a mountain sounded like when it was happy. "So far from home; dallying with mortals while your world burns."

Loki stepped between Kate and Thanos, a knife glinting in each hand; Fridur drew her sword and joined him, settling into a low fighting stance. Loki glanced at her.

"Get out," he said.

"Yes, little elf; get out and go home. Go home to your _brother_ ," Thanos said, and Fridur stiffened. "That's right, Dofrisdotter: you are betrayed by your own blood."

"Silence, liar." Loki shouted. "Or I'll cut your tongue from your ugly face."

"Liar? I tell the truth, Loki. Unlike you," Thanos said.

One moment, Kate was crouched behind Loki, peeking between him and Fridur and wishing someone would cut the Titan's throat already; the next, she was on fire. Every nerve ending, every inch of skin screamed; but when she opened her mouth to give her pain voice, the fire dove down her throat and scorched her lungs.

"Kate!" Loki shouted, turning his back to Thanos.

"You can't protect her, Loki. No one can."

Kate reached for Loki, powerless to shout a warning as Thanos raised his fist and brought it sweeping down—

The room was bright again and Loki and Thanos were gone. Fridur stood before her, her hands on either side of Kate's face, her eyes wide and afraid. "Kate."

Kate opened her mouth, meaning to speak, and felt her lungs spasm, demanding a long breath instead. She sucked in a breath, and another. Fridur's hands dropped to her shoulders, support and insistence at the same time.

"Talk to me," Fridur said, some of the fear going out of her voice to be replaced by intense focus. "Kate. What was that?"

"Thanos," she said between gasps. "Fucking—toad-face Thanos."

"What was it talking about? Why was it talking about my brother?" Fridur asked, her voice rising. Her hands tightened on Kate's shoulders. "What did it mean, _while your world burns?_ "

"I don't know," Kate said. She held onto Fridur's arm for support, swaying. "He's—he got into Loki's head, and now he's in mine. He's the one that sent the Chitauri to Earth—"

Kate cut off her babble when she saw Fridur's face. "Fridur?"

"He commands the Chitauri?" The elf's eyes were intent, calculating. Kate nodded, then grimaced and shook her head.

"He doesn't—I don't know that he _commands_ them, it's more like—he manipulates them." Kate shivered hard and clenched Fridur's arm as a memory-echo of Thanos's torture burned across her skin. Fridur slid an arm under Kate and steered her toward a couch, easing both of them down onto the seat. She didn't immediately let go of Kate, so Kate leaned into her. Fridur held her through the shivering and the shuddering, and Kate was reassured by the weight of the elf's arm around her waist.

"The Chitauri came to Alfheim," Fridur said softly when Kate's shivers died down. "We drove them back. Or so I thought." She looked through the windows, eyes unfocused. She smelled like cinnamon and shea butter, Kate thought.

"How did they get there?" Kate asked. Fridur looked at her. "I mean—Loki had to get Selvig to build a warp portal thingy around the Tesseract to open up a wormhole for the Chitauri to come through. Did you have something like that? A portal?"

"No," Fridur said slowly. "They came out of the Waste—the Sasoria Kiva." She made a horizon line before them with a sweep of her hand. "No one's tried to live in the Sasoria Kiva since my father's time. There's no water, no shelter, no—" She stopped, seeing something in her memory.

"Fridur?"

"Bui, no," the elf breathed.

"What is it?"

Fridur turned to Kate, her pupils pinpricks of alarm. "I have to go," she muttered, and stood. "There's someone—I have to find someone—"

Fridur took a step back, and Kate half-believed she would have left right then, Thor and Loki be damned, if the elevator hadn't chimed. Fridur's eyes darted to the door, and Kate watched as she visibly packed away her emotions, turning distant.

A set of rhythmic clacks announced Loki's approach. She twisted to look toward the elevator doors. Thor and Loki appeared, Thor looking thunderous—as if that wasn't a cliché—and Loki pale, pissed-off, and a little sick. Despite the gray shorts, plain t-shirt, and embarrassingly mortal crutches—maybe _because_ of the shorts, shirt, and crutches—he looked strange and beautiful and deadly, like someone had put a Cone of Shame on a cheetah. Kate stood, one hand out at her side for balance, and Loki's eyes flicked to her, then to Fridur, then back to her. She felt like she was looking into a mirror.

"Fridur Dofrisdotter," he said, still looking at Kate. "I understand I have you to thank for returning my body to Midgard." His gaze slid to Fridur. Kate shivered at the absence. Loki inclined his head. "You have my gratitude."

"Keep it," Fridur said. Kate blinked and looked at the elf. Her hand was white-knuckled on the grip of her sword. _What the hell?_ "I did not act for love of you, Loki Silvertongue, but out of friendship to Thor and with feeling for my duty as heir to Dofri and commander of the guard."

Thor looked as startled as Kate felt. Loki leaned over Kate's shoulder and whispered, "I told you not to let her into your head."

Kate flinched. _Jesus fucking Christ, would you stop?_

Loki-in-gym-shorts— _real_ Loki, actual existing-in-the-world Loki, not the Loki freaking her the fuck out from inside her head—gave a small smile. "As you wish, Lady Fridur." He limped down the two steps that separated the upper half of the lounge from the bottom under Thor's watchful eye, then swung his way to the middle of the room, close to Fridur without being _close_ to her. Thor left his brother behind to exchange words with Fridur—though the elf didn't take her eyes off Loki for a moment—then went back up the steps to talk to the Avengers, who'd apparently filtered in while Kate was being distracted by Loki and Fridur.

"She didn’t care about me before. Now she's angry with me. Something she saw in your head, or something you said, is to blame," Loki whispered in her ear. Kate gritted her teeth.

 _So you're saying that it's_ bad for you _that I let her into my head. Gee, how surprising that you gave me advice that's actually all about what's good for you._

"Kate," real-Loki said, and the effect of his sex-voice should have been completely negated by the fact that he looked like a fratboy who'd broken his ankle playing drunken Ultimate Frisbee, but it wasn't, and the rake of his green eyes made her body light up like Christmas at Rockefeller Center. "Daydreaming of me?"

 _That_ snapped her out of it.

"Shut your mouth, trickster," Fridur said, stepping between Loki and Kate. A glimmer of steel showed between her scabbard and her sword-hilt. Alarmed, Kate put a hand on Fridur's shoulder.

"Fridur—" she hissed.

"Stand back," Fridur said, her voice flat.

"Fridur—" Kate tried again, but before she could say anything else, the elf shook off her hand with the ease of a horse twitching its side to discourage a fly. Kate looked from Fridur's unflinching profile to Loki's amused face. _Dammit, Loki—_

"Let us go," Thor boomed, and swooped in. "Kate Sullivan of Midgard, may you be well,"he said, and then he was standing on one side of Fridur and Loki was on the other and blurry memories from another world were telling her that they were about to leave and for a moment the impulse to reach out and grab Thor's hand was so strong that she actually lifted her arm—

—but they were gone.

She stood in the middle of Tony Stark's wind-whipped penthouse, Manhattan gleaming before her, and she was alone.


	32. Chapter 32

They landed in a courtyard in Asgard. The Alfar princess dropped both their hands as if they were dead fish, and before the waiting guards could surround them, she turned to Thor, muttered, "Deliver my apologies to Odin," and stepped away into nothing. The palace guards in the doorway hesitated, then filed into the courtyard. Loki compared the moment to Kate's memory of her own undignified arrival and felt a brief moment of gratitude for his brother's earlier discretion. Weakness was dangerous on Asgard, and no one knew that better than he.

Which was why, despite the fact that every movement pained him, he dropped the crude supports Thor had made him take, drew himself up to his full height, and said, with all the cold command he could put into his voice, "Take me to the throne room. Immediately."

"Loki, you need the healers," Thor protested. The guards looked from him to Thor, clearly inclining to Asgard's golden prince. That wouldn't do.

"Asgard is in danger," Loki said, projecting his voice. Kate had used his throat to scream with unfortunate frequency; the increased volume hurt, although the damage lent him a certain grave rasp as well. "There are traitors in the house of Odin; Jotun monsters that may even now lurk among you—among the servants, among the guards, hidden in your midst as my own heritance was hidden from me." That started a few whispers—some derisive, but others fearful. _Hopeful signs,_ Loki thought. "I would meet with Odin in open court, that all Asgard may see and judge. Secrets and lies have eaten at the foundations of our great kingdom like a serpent dripping poison onto rock; only by confronting them will we save our home from collapse."

"If there's a snake in Asgard, it's Loki's brat," someone muttered from the surrounding guards, and a few chuckled, but there were enough intrigued—or just curious—faces among the guards that Loki could feel their blind obedience to Thor weakening.

"Brother, what are you planning?" Thor asked, blue eyes caught between suspicion and worry.

"I plan to protect Asgard," Loki said, lifting his chin. "As I have always strived to do."

"Bulllllllll-shit," Kate yodeled, arms folded as she leaned against the courtyard wall behind the guards.

_Shut up, Kate,_ he thought, fighting not to look in her direction.

"Surely this can wait until you have been tended to," Thor said, casting a skeptical eye over Loki that included his ridiculous and scanty Midgardian attire.

"I will not leave Asgard unwarned a moment longer," Loki said. _And as ugly as this costume is, it gives me the appearance of humility._ "Come, Thor," he said, tilting his head toward the doorway. "I am not so fragile that I will break within the hour."

Thor looked at him suspiciously before sighing. Loki read the shift in his weight and so managed to take his first step toward the door a second ahead of Thor: just close enough that none of the guards had an excuse to spear him, but enough ahead of Thor that at least a few of those observing would see him leading the way toward Odin.

_Details,_ he thought as he began to limp through the castle, his stride hobbled by his lamed leg. _It's all in the details._

"What's in the details?" Kate asked. She strode beside him, hands in pockets, blithely unconcerned by the fact that she didn't exist. Loki gritted his teeth and didn't look at her.

_Get out._

"Nope. What details?"

_Get out, or I will return to Earth and tear you apart._

He could _feel_ her roll her eyes.

"Oh, right, you're going to walk into the throne room, spin some bullshit, and everyone's going to trust you again and let you wander back to Earth. Riiiiiiiight. Sure. Totally gonna happen." She made a rude noise. "Threaten someone who exists."

_I assure you—_

She rolled her eyes even harder. "Just _answer_ my question and I'll get out of your long, luxurious, L'Oreal-because-you're-worth-it hair, Loki. _What's_ in the details?"

Loki allowed himself a tiny sigh and gave in. _Freedom. Perhaps. I will not convince Odin of my trust-worthiness, and likely not Thor, but if I can sow some doubt among the Aesir than I am the monster I've been painted—well._ He was careful not to let the smile he felt reach his face. _Doubt is where I live._

"Spoken like a criminal defense attorney," Kate muttered, and then she was gone. Loki felt a pang of regret at her absence, quickly dismissed. He needed every bit of his wit and attention about him right now.

The long walk to the throne room was even longer on a broken leg. Thor stayed close—out of suspicion and worry both, Loki thought—and a pack of guards followed in only slightly more order than dogs. Together, they made enough noise that the only ones they passed were the deliberately curious, searching out a glimpse of Asgard's disobedient princes.

Kate's memories of the same walk hissed at the corners of his mind like static. She had been afraid and excited and confused, still gagged, still expecting to be freed. Still unaware how cruel Asgard could be.

"Loki. What variety of diplomatic, social, or emotional catastrophe have you courted this time?" a familiar voice called out.

Loki stopped in his tracks, a grin spreading across his face. Sigyn uncrossed her arms and glided out of the shadows where she'd been waiting for them, revealing that she was wearing as close to court dress as Sigyn ever came: full black taffeta skirts, a severely tailored jacket, and jet hair combs that looked like claws or branches holding her mass of curly red hair in place atop her head. One of the guards blocked her path before she could come within touching distance; she leveled a deadly pale-green glare at him, but stopped.

"Dearest betrothed," Loki said, and couldn't hold back the widening of his smile when she turned the glare on him.

"If you believe that these guards or that broken leg will prevent me from tearing you limb from limb, you are being stupider than usual," she said. Loki risked a shaky bow, still grinning. Sigyn turned to Thor and received his bow with cold patience. "Thor."

"Lady Sigyn," Thor said. "I am glad to see you returned."

"No, you're not," she said, then looked over the guards. "You proceed to an audience with the All-Father, yes? Then let us go."

She began gliding in the direction they had been taking. The guards looked at each other for a moment in confusion, then scrambled to follow as Loki began walking after Sigyn. The Vanir ex-princess slowed her movement to match Loki's pace and drifted back to his side. The guard who'd intervened earlier walked between them, looking nervous, but Sigyn ignored him.

"I spent the last year looking for you, Loki. I passed up _seventeen_ fascinating planetary bodies because your life signs weren't present, dodged two new hostile spacefaring races, and skipped breakfast this morning."

"I'm touched, Sigyn," Loki said, trying to get his mouth to stop grinning. "I know how much you like breakfast."

"I'm not sure why I bothered. You're an unstable, genocidal, traitorous Jotun, who apparently had the poor sense and even poorer taste to attempt invading Midgard. I should save Odin the breath and kill you right now."

Loki's smile died. He stopped walking and turned to Sigyn, who stopped moving at the same time. Thor and the guards took a moment longer to catch on, milling for a moment. Sigyn didn't look at him. His heart pounded in his chest. _Not Sigyn. Merciful gods, not Sigyn._

"If you truly believe that, then you should kill me now," he said, his lips dry, voice cracking. He knelt unsteadily. The guards and even Thor watched in shocked silence as Loki lifted his chin, baring his throat. "I will not hold you from your duty."

"My duty?" Sigyn growled. She turned her head to look down at him, lip curling, hands clenched. " _You_ would tell me my duty?"

"Is that not what you speak of?" Loki said, keeping his voice low, though he couldn't stop the vicious, bitter edge it held. "Your duty as princess of Vanaheim, ally of Asgard?"

Sigyn was motionless in the way that only Sigyn could be motionless: utterly without movement, every line of her body holding the promise of immanent violence. She met Loki's eyes directly. He saw death in them—quick, clean, final death—and for a moment, he wanted it. He wouldn't live in a world without Sigyn's friendship. He couldn't.

Her eyes narrowed. Her left hand tapped her dress—a gesture of impatience, to Thor and the guards, but not to Loki. _I was making a joke, you moron._

He almost collapsed in relief.

_Horse's catamite._

He twitched his fingers. _I'm sorry._

Her eyes got even narrower at that. "Do get up," she said, disgust rolling off her voice.

He wobbled to his feet, shame and anger with himself burning in his throat. Letting the mortal into his thoughts had made him slow. Never mind that he hadn't seen Sigyn in more than a decade, he should have known she wouldn't turn her back on him. She was here, wasn't she? And his first act upon seeing the one person besides Thor and Frigga who liked him was to throw the one thing she hated back in her face.

Thor and the guards let out a collective sigh as Loki started walking again. _Cross-eyed, gap-toothed, slack-jawed mouth-breather,_ Sigyn tapped, and Loki answered _yes_ quickly before she turned away from him. _Lackwit crustlicking pigeon_ ,she continued with her hand against her dress, and Loki took a deep breath, trying to regain his footing in the conversation that Thor and the others had seen.

"Two new hostile spacefaring races," he said, and licked dry lips. "Were either of them the Chitauri?"

"Don't be tedious," Sigyn said crisply. "The Chitauri are hardly new."

Loki stumbled.

"You know of the Chitauri?" Thor asked. Sigyn gave him a suspicious look that turned disgusted when she saw Loki's expression.

"I'd expect ignorance of Thor, but not of you, Loki," she said, and Loki couldn't stop a mirthless laugh.

"Oh, I know of the Chitauri," he said. "I know them quite well. I wasn't aware that you did."

Sigyn muttered something that might have been _beacon of light and knowledge, my ass_ , then snorted. "Cockroaches of the universe," she said, and that description echoed his own thinking so exactly that Loki found himself smiling again. "Mindless, difficult to kill, and omnipresent. They are numerous enough that it is rarely worth the effort to crush them."

"Unfortunately, that has been our task of late on both Midgard and Alfheim," Thor said. He walked a little closer to Loki, paying attention to Sigyn. "Lady Sigyn, do you know of a creature called Thanos? One who might associate with the Chitauri?"

It would be so easy to elbow Thor in the side. Even tripping him would be relatively simple, when he was this distracted. Loki restrained the impulse, and was rewarded in a moment with Sigyn looking down her nose at Thor.

"The World-Eater? Of course." Thor and Loki took another two steps before she looked back at them, incredulous. Loki allowed himself a moment of happy contemplation of Sigyn's face. Sigyn had developed a wide and brilliant range of expressions to convey her reaction to ignorance: this one was a perfect mix of disbelief, surprise, and disappointment. "You _don't_ know Thanos?"

"No, Lady Sigyn."

Thor's answer set off what Kate would have called an "epic" eyeroll, accompanied by a flaring of her nostrils. "A millennium," she said to the hallway before them. "Alive _a millennium_."

"He's very pleasant company, for a purple-faced world-destroying monster," Loki offered. Sigyn looked at him sharply.

"He's a cosmic vandal," she said. "A child, smashing everything in his path." _How? Why?_

"He seems to have found the Chitauri amusing toys." _I fell, he found me._

"I don't doubt it." _Idiot. I will berate you later._

He clenched his jaw to keep from smiling like a fool. Sigyn leveled her narrowed gaze at him, as potent a threat as a naked blade, then turned her face away. They crossed into the high-ceilinged hall that led to the throne room. Loki's stomach fluttered. _Sigyn's here_ , he told himself. _That makes at least two people who'll protest if Odin suggests killing me._ The thought wasn't as comforting as the simple fact of Sigyn's presence.

"OKAY, WHO THE FUCK IS THIS CHICK?" Kate exploded next to him. Loki flinched and tried to hide it as a wobble. "I have been listening _quiet as a freaking mouse_ for the last ten minutes and I have _no freaking idea_ who she is or what the _hell_ is going on between you two."

_Worst timing, Kate_ , Loki thought, looking ahead at the doors to the throne room. _Go away. Right now._

She walked backward in front of him, arms folded. "Uh-unh. Talk. _Fast._ "

Loki didn't have time to argue with the phantom in his head. _We were betrothed as children. A political marriage between Vanaheim and Asgard, to be consummated when we were adults. She renounced all claims to the throne to gain the freedom to explore the universe. It's been three centuries, and her family still hasn't accepted her decision. She dislikes being reminded of it._

The throne room doors were opening. "So, what, are you still engaged?" Kate asked.

_Her family believes so. Sigyn and I do not. She's my friend._

Kate snorted and unfolded her arms. "She's your friend? Well, that's all you have to say, Loki. Only a total nut would be your friend."

Loki wished heartily that Kate had a physical form he could strangle, but even her illusory presence had disappeared. He drove the troublesome mortal from his mind as he crossed under the high arch of the doorway and into the throne room. He was an outlaw and a traitor, condemned once already in this very room; he would need every persuasive gift he possessed to keep his head attached to his neck, much less win his freedom.

"Loki," Sigyn said. He looked to her and caught the flicker of her fingers against her dress. "You have much to explain. Please avoid saying things that will encourage Odin to execute you." _I owe you a punch in the nose. Live to receive it._

"I will certainly do my best," he said, smiling. Sigyn gave him one last green glare before gliding to join the Aesir gathered along either side of the room, a black panther among wolves. Loki turned his attention to the empty throne as the guards brought him within a dozen feet of the dais and stopped.

He knew he could convince Odin of his rightness. He _did_. But with the hostile eyes of nearly every noble in Asgard turned on him, Loki—understandably, _naturally_ —felt a moment of doubt.

He _had_ , after all, allowed Jotuns into Asgard.

He _had_ tried to destroy all of Jotunheim.

He _had_ accepted Thanos' offer after falling from the bridge.

He _had_ invaded Earth.

He _had_ killed Midgardians, and forced Midgardians to kill for him, and—

A small, warm hand slipped into his. He knew he shouldn't—that everyone was watching him, that he couldn't reveal that he was having visions, that if they believed he was mad they would stop listening to him—but he looked at her anyway. Her gaze was steady. _She believes_ _in you_ , vision-Kate had told him on Earth.

How long had it been since anyone believed in Loki?

He took a deep breath and turned to the throne.

_Come, Odin. Let us begin._


	33. Chapter 33

After Loki and Thor and Fridur left, the Avengers didn't have much use for Kate.

Sure, Dr. Banner checked on her heart again, and Captain Freaking America asked if she was okay, but once Loki was off the planet, it was like all of them realized they had other things to do. Which they did, Kate told herself: Romanoff got called by SHIELD, presumably to go kill someone with her thighs; Steve Rogers got summoned to some kind of congressional hearing thing; a box of what looked like broken toasters arrived and Tony disappeared into his lab with a mad gleam in his eye; Hawkdude got a testy phone call from someone about finishing a medical evaluation; and Banner quietly disappeared after a breaking news bulletin on the TV in the lounge said that a battle-damaged apartment building had collapsed two blocks away, hurting a bunch of people. They all had important stuff to do, superhero stuff, and she'd told them what she could about Thanos, and that particular problem was in Thor's hands now, really.

So when Hawkdude side-eyed her and told her he was putting her in a car back to Albany, it shouldn't have felt like a dismissal. It was nice, honestly, more thoughtful than she would have expected out of a guy who had a personal grudge with Loki and whom she'd kind of tricked. He helped her grab all her stuff (bag, Fridur's boots, the black jacket Loki had bought in Sweden—she didn't want the blood-soaked pants or the useless high heels) and he even asked her if he could call in some takeout for her to eat in the car on the way. After she said no, he walked her down to the loading docks that she vaguely remembered sneaking through, as Loki, and before he closed the door on her, he handed her a business card.

"Next time you run into an alien with plans for world domination, give me a call, okay?" he said, and made himself smile. She tried smiling back, but it was awkward, and she was relieved when he closed the door on her. He talked to the driver, and Kate looked down at the card. She didn't know what she had expected— _in case of alien invasion, call this number?_ —but all she found was cream cardstock, a black embossed arrow, and a phone number. She flipped it over. Nothing.

The car began to roll forward and Kate looked up, suddenly aware that she wasn't ready to leave; she _couldn't_ be ready to leave. She hadn't gotten a proper good-bye from Loki (although what that would have looked like, she wasn't sure, now that she was thinking about it) and her head was still reeling from Asgard and Avengers Tower and the smell of Captain America's freaking _aftershave;_ she'd met Tony Stark and Pepper freaking Potts and maybe she'd been part of saving the world and how did you even begin to make _sense_ of all that?

But Hawkdude was already over by the elevators and the car was sliding out into the sunlight and what would she have said? _Hang on, I'm not ready?_ What was Hawkdude going to do to help her be ready?

She slid the business card into her bag and wrapped her hand around her phone, but she couldn't make herself take it out. _God._ What was she going to tell everyone? The truth? The truth sounded insane. The truth _was_ insane.

As they moved through the streets of New York, Kate thought about opening the door of the Town Car and running back to the Tower, or even calling up Ylsa and asking if she could crash there. She just needed time: time to remember that her leg wasn't broken, time to remember that she was back on Earth, time to remember that she was Kate again.

"Running solves very few problems," Loki said, and Kate hated the wash of gratitude she felt at his appearance on the seat next to her.

_Go away._

"If you truly wish to be alone, I'll leave. But Kate?" She squeezed her eyes shut rather than look at him. "I want to help. I _can_ help."

_Yeah, right._

"Kate, I have spun lies for longer than this country you claim as your own has existed. I can help you create a story they'll believe."

She sighed and leaned back into the seat, eyes still closed. It was too much to hope that sending the real Loki back to Asgard would mean the disappearance of fake-Loki from her head.

_Why bother? You have nothing to gain._

"I've grown fond of you, Kate. I find your distress . . . irritating. I'd alleviate it, if I could." He played with a curl of hair over her ear. "I'd do other things for you, if you let me."

She shivered.

"I can turn the air conditioning down, if you want," the driver said. Her eyes snapped open.

"No, it's all right," she said, straightening. She ignored the throb between her legs and pulled out her phone. It was fully charged, damn it, and she had a clear signal. She swallowed hard, wishing she couldn't still taste Loki's kiss on her lips, and she dialed.

It was a long drive back to Albany.

\---

_There are only three stories_ , one of Kate's professors told her class. _A hero goes on a journey; a stranger comes to town; and someone throws a party._

Kate watched Albany sliding past her windows: old and new, neon and brick, stately and squalid. _Of course, the first two stories are the same story, told from different perspectives. One story's hero is another story's stranger, and vice-versa._

Her phone rested on her thigh, her hand still wrapped around it like the grip of a knife. Her quick, brutal conversation with Kinsley had hurt like a stab; the one with her mother had felt like one long, sustained beating once she'd established that yes, she was alive, and yes, she was unhurt. "Why didn't you call?" her mother had asked, over and over, crying and furious, and after Kate ran out of lies all she could do was sit silently, listening to her mother weep.

She didn't recognize her own street until the driver pulled the Town Car to the curb in front of her apartment and shifted into park. She blinked, startled; she hadn't given him her address. He turned to look at her over the seat.

"This is you, right?"

She nodded and, prodded by the question, shoved her phone into her bag, then lifted the strap over her head and reached for the door.

"It doesn't have to be. I can take you somewhere else, if you want. Friend's house, relative's house . . ."

There was sympathy in the driver's eyes, and in his voice. Kate curled her fingers around the strap of her bag. "Thanks," she said. "But I'm home."

The words must have come out alright—not strangled, the way they sounded to her—because he just nodded. Kate shoved open the door and freed herself from the deep backseat in a rush, letting the momentum of her movement spill her onto the lawn. She closed the door behind her and watched the car pull away, then trudged across the lawn to the front door.

Which was locked. "Fuck," Kate said under her breath, then opened her bag and dug, hoping to God that neither she nor Loki had managed to lose her keys in the past few days. _Three days,_ she told herself; she'd checked and rechecked the date on her phone, and it had only been three days.

Three days in which she'd ended up in the middle of an alien invasion, gone undercover as a supervillain, travelled to another world, got locked up and then chased through the streets by a mob, got kidnapped and tortured by giants, got rescued by the god of thunder and a real live elf, _and_ met all of the Avengers including Tony Stark and Pepper Freaking Potts.

It felt longer than three days.

It felt like a whole fucking _life._

Metal tinkled and Kate hissed in relief as she snagged her keys. The carabiner she usually used to clip them to the strap of her bag was missing, but otherwise, they were all there, even the dolphin bottle-opener that Kinsley had brought her from Florida. She found her house key and fumbled the door open.

Inside, the dark stairs seemed darker than usual. She tensed, keys wrapped in her fist like a weapon, before she decided that the stairway wasn't actually darker; it just felt darker. She closed the front door behind her and reluctantly stowed her keys back in her bag, then began to trudge up the steps.

"Kate?"

She froze halfway up the stairs. She'd hoped that Kinsley would be at her job. They'd only exchanged the bare minimum of information over the phone: yes, Kate was alive; yes, she was coming home that day; no, she couldn't talk about it just then. For a second, she imagined backing silently down the stairs and hiding in the neighbors' mildewy hall closet until Kinsley left.

_Coward,_ she told herself, and cleared her throat. "Yeah."

Kinsley's footsteps thudded heavily across the poorly insulated floor. She appeared at the top of the stairs, her eyes wide and somehow vulnerable without her usual coating of makeup. "Holy shit, Kate. Where have you been?"

Faced with her roommate's worried expression, her mind blanked. _Oh fuck oh fuck_ —

"Jersey," Loki whispered in her ear. "Remember? You had to evacuate Manhattan and you ended up in Jersey. The trains weren't running, so you stayed in a shelter until you could catch a bus to the city, then you found out that private car companies were volunteering to take people out of the city, and that's how you got here." Loki's hand slipped into hers and squeezed. "I'm here. I'll remind you."

"I was in Jersey," Kate said, and her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I got caught up. Evacuated off Manhattan. Crossed the river."

Her fingers tightened on Loki's hand as Kinsley looked down the stairs at her, her expression incredulous. _Empty air,_ she told herself, but it didn't feel like empty air. It felt like Loki's hand: warm, strong, steady.

"They shut down the trains. The buses. Took me two days just to get back in the city, then I found out Grand Central was closed—"

Kinsley descended a step. Her face fell into shadow and Kate tensed.

"It's okay," Kinsley said. "You're okay. That's what matters. You're home and you're okay."

At the word _home_ , she saw thebright halls of Asgard, the green gardens where every breath felt like new life, the night sky rich with diamond stars, and her throat closed hard and fast. Then Kinsley had come down the rest of the steps and was hugging her tight, rocking her, and Kate let go of Loki's hand to pat Kinsley on the back, _there, there_. She could feel Loki on the stairs behind her, watching, and she could picture the small, amused smile on his lips.

_Home. Okay._

A hysterical laugh rose up in her throat and she clenched her teeth against it, then bit the inside of her cheek, hard, until the taste of blood filled her mouth and she didn't want to laugh until she screamed. Kinsley sniffled and let her go and in the dark, something of her inner turmoil must have showed, because Kinsley left her hand on Kate's arm and whispered, "Was it bad?"

A bark of laughter slipped out before she could stop it. _Bad._ Watching aliens come out of the sky? Being accused of crimes she hadn't committed and being unable to defend herself? Being tortured by monsters? Having gods and freaks traipsing through her head until she wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't, until she was _comforted_ by things that she knew weren't real, was _bad_ the word for that?

Kinsley saw the expression on her face—whatever it was—and her own expression turned contrite. "I'm sorry, of course it was, of course it was bad." She hesitated, and Kate could see curiosity and worry warring in her roommate's eyes. Kinsley wanted to know more. _Greedy little bitch, of course you want to know more. Reading everything you can about Iron Man and the others, so excited about every battle he fights, like there weren't real people involved, people who got hurt or killed or just fucking scared shitless because there's nothing you can do if you're just an ordinary person, if you're ordinary you're fucking useless, all you can do is die or get out of the way, is that what you'd like to know, Kinsley, is that what you want, do you want to know what it's like to know you're going to die and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it—_

"Kate," Loki said. She shuddered.

"Kate?" Kinsley asked.

"I don't want to talk about it," Kate whispered.

"Okay," Kinsley said, and her voice sounded the same as when she'd tried to coax a stray out from the car it had crawled under after being hit by a Jeep. "It's okay, Kate. You don't have to talk about it. Come on, you probably want to come in, right?" She half-turned away and started to climb the stairs, caught between looking at Kate and watching where she was going.

The cat had died, Kate remembered.

She followed Kinsley up the steps, lead-limbed. "It's not her fault, Kate," Loki said, following behind her. "She's never experienced anything like what happened to you. She doesn't understand—"

_And when did you become the fucking voice of reason, Loki?_ Kate thought, her jaw tightening. It felt better to be angry at Loki than guilty over what she'd been thinking about Kinsley.

"Since never," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice, the bastard, and it made her feel better, like a fucking idiot, being comforted by someone that didn't exist, by someone who even if he _did_ exist was the biggest asshole she'd ever met, so what did that make her—

"Mortal," Loki interrupted. "You're mortal, little one. Mortal and gone through more in three days than most of your kind will experience in a lifetime. Be kind, my darling, to yourself as much as Kinsley."

Kate stumbled. Kinsley looked back from the top of the stairs, worried. Kate tried to smile at her. "Tired," she said. _Darling?!_

Between one step and the next she felt Loki behind her, so close that her skin prickled with the heat of his body. "Darling," he repeated to her nape, then kissed the knot of her spine.

She would have stumbled again if she hadn't white-knuckled the rail beside her. "Jesus fucking Christ," she muttered.

"What was that?" Kinsley asked.

"Nothing!" _Don't fucking DO that._

"What? This?" Loki asked, his breath ghosting over the back of her neck, and nipped her trapezius.

Kate sprinted up the last four steps as if she could outrun the heat between her legs. Kinsley, halfway into the kitchen, looked back at her with a frown on her face.

"Ghosties," Kate said, and Kinsley raised an eyebrow. _Ghosties_ was their term for the sudden, unexplainable certainty that there was a serial killer lurking in the dark, which sometimes made them slam the door or sprint up the stairs. Kate tried to smile. Kinsley shook her head and turned back to the kitchen.

"Do you want something to eat? I can make something . . ."

"Sure," Kate said, relieved. "I'm just going to take a quick shower first."

Kinsley nodded, and Kate walked down the hall. _Jesus fucking Christ, Loki_. _This is not the time to play grab-ass._

"I'm unfamiliar with this game," Loki said, following her into her bedroom. She felt a sudden urge to straighten her comforter, which she smothered by throwing her bag onto the bed. "Perhaps you can teach me."

"Smartass," Kate muttered, and bent over to pull off Fridur's boots. The leather was buttery-soft and she let out a little groan as it slipped over her skin.

"Hey, Kate, do you want—whoa," Kinsley said, standing in the doorway. "Nice boots."

"Uh, thanks," Kate said. _Shit._ "Uh. I trashed my sneakers on the way out of the city and, uh, ended up with these." She pulled the other boot off and tried to drop it nonchalantly, as if it wasn't made of real leather and probably bespoke for Fridur and tanned with the tears of unicorns, for all Kate knew.

"If that's what you get for evacuating New York, I'm in," Kinsley said. She went wide-eyed and put her hand over her mouth. Kate looked down at her feet.

When her heart stopped banging against her chest like a gorilla pounding its fists on glass _(lies, her heart was still pounding)_ she said, calmly, "What did you want to ask me?"

Kinsley gulped. "I don't think you actually said that very calmly," Loki observed.

"Did you want Swiss or provolone on your omelet?" Kinsley asked.

"Swiss," Kate said, and when she didn't say anything else, Kinsley backed away and slowly drew the door shut. Kate sat on the edge of the bed. Loki sat next to her.

"Be kind," he said. She swallowed past the lump in her throat that she _knew_ was irrational, she _knew_ was unrealistic. But dammit, it was _there,_ like Kinsley was there, talking about New York with questions in her eyes and doubt in her mouth and Kinsley _knew_ she was holding back. "Kate . . ."

"Scram," Kate whispered.

"Hmm," Loki said, and was gone.


	34. Chapter 34

Odin looked down from his throne: first at Loki, his one eye taking in Loki's Aesir appearance and Midgardian garb, then at Thor. Thor didn't know how Odin could make a simple look pierce a man through, as if all his faults were old stains on pale cloth held to the sun. Was it the thousands of years of rule, or was it simply part of him, Odin the man, Odin the father?

Loki stood proud and defiant beside Thor. He had some plan brewing; Thor could see it in his eyes. Thor watched the fine tremble in Loki's hand, dangling at his side, and wondered if Loki's plan took into account his current frailty. He doubted it.

"All-Father," Loki said. "It's been a long time."

"You have been declared outlaw, Loki. You have no claim on this court any longer; that you speak at all is on my sufferance," Odin said, the narrowing of his eye making his meaning clear: _speak quickly._

Loki smiled, as if Odin had offered him exactly the opportunity he desired. "Ah, but it _has_ been a long time, All-Father. Though this body returned to Asgard recently, _I_ did not. I'm surprised you didn't notice, although I was told you were in a hurry to sentence me. So hurried that the person you thought was me was barred from speaking in her own defense."

Odin didn't look surprised. _Fridur_ , Thor thought; the Alfar must have given some account of their search for Loki and their discovery of Kate.

"Indeed, there were a great number of things done to the person you believed was me. She was imprisoned. She was cast out onto the streets of Asgard. She was threatened, chased, and finally . . ." Loki paused. "She was taken by frost giants. Giants who infiltrated Asgard and have been waiting here for years, working their way deeper and deeper into the palace on the orders of Laufey, intent on recovering the Casket of Ancient Winter. _Frost giants_ ," Loki repeated, raising his voice over murmurs from gathered Aesir, "who have moved unnoticed through the palace—undiscovered by Heimdall, or the Captain of the Guard, or by you yourself."

"A bold claim," Odin said, unmoved.

"All-Father," Thor said, cutting off anything Loki might have replied with. He took a step forward and knelt. "When I found—the person I believed to be Loki, she was being held by frost giants." He removed the satchel he'd borrowed from Tony Stark and withdrew the gray uniform tunic they had dressed Loki— _Kate_ —in once Thor and Fridur had cut her down. The knife, which he had wrapped in the tunic, made his skin prickle uncomfortably. He held up the cloth, and the gathered nobles took a collective breath as they recognized the fabric. Very few, other than the palace staff, wore that color. "They were dressed in palace uniforms, unrecognizable from any ordinary Aesir."

"Except they were not harmed by my Jotun form," Loki said, his voice as smooth as if he'd planned for Thor to interject. "The illusion hiding their true nature was dispelled when they touched me. Just as I discovered my heritage when I fought beside Thor on Jotunheim, wrestling with Jotun warriors bent on killing the six of us."

"An encounter that you engineered, Loki," Odin said.

"An encounter that Thor instigated," Loki replied without hesitation. "An encounter that would have led to war with Jotunheim, and the deaths of countless Aesir. An encounter that led _you_ to banish Thor to Midgard."

"Instigated as a result of your manipulation," Odin said, his voice rising slightly—out of anger, or over the growing whispers in the throne room, Thor couldn't tell. Thor stayed on his knee, his stomach churning at Loki's words. "Which involved _you_ allowing frost giants into Asgard."

Loki paused, and Thor risked a look at his brother. His face was solemn, pale, and yet resolute.

"I did," Loki said, and a rush of whispering followed his words—whispers with the eager, vicious edge of spectators watching an enemy's downfall. No sign of his hearing showed on Loki's face, though his right hand clenched, and his chest rose and fell as he waited for the whispering to quiet. "To my great regret," he said, enunciating every word, and then the nobles really _did_ quiet, because there was truth, there, the kind of tired truth that even Loki had difficulty faking.

"I allowed frost giants into Asgard," Loki said, his voice lowered, but calm and slow, in control, as if he wanted there to be no mistaking his words. Every whisper died as he spoke, some of the nobles even leaning in to listen, because Loki did not apologize like this—like he _meant_ it, like he was admitting something wrong instead of expressing his regret at being caught.

"I did so to interrupt Thor's coronation as crown prince, because I believed Thor was unready to rule Asgard." The whispers made a brief return, furious, before dying again as Loki continued. "I believed that Thor would put our home and our people in danger; that his eagerness for battle would lead to a war that would result in the deaths of Aesir. And the death of even one Aesir, if it came in an unnecessary war, is a tragedy I would seek to avoid with all my power—even if it meant delaying my brother's claim of his birthright."

Loki met Odin's eyes without flinching. "I spoke to you of my fears, Odin, long before that coronation. You told me that Thor was worthy. But when he acted as he thought he must—to protect Asgard, for however misguided his actions were, he meant to protect Asgard—you cast him out. Stripped him of his powers and sent him away."

Loki paused, giving the nobles time to absorb the parallel. "Then you fell into the Odinsleep. Leaving me the responsibility for protecting Asgard, with no warning, no preparation beyond my training alongside Thor; with a new war with Jotunheim looming; and with factions in Asgard eager to use your fall into the Odinsleep as an excuse to disobey your last command and bring Thor back from Midgard before he proved himself worthy of his title."

Loki paused, breathing hard, and Thor marveled at the way Loki had made him into villain, then victim, then maybe-hero; the way he had turned Sif and Hogun and Fandral and Volstagg from loyal friends to rebels agitating against the crown. It was the truth, and it wasn't, and Thor listened with equal parts amazement and dismay. Odin, stone-faced, gave no sign of his reaction.

"I acted to protect Asgard," Loki said, raising his voice suddenly so that it rang through the throne room. "To eliminate the threat presented by Laufey. To _stop_ the Frost Giants without endangering Aesir in a costly and pointless ground war. I tried to use the Bifrost to destroy Jotunheim because I believed I would never again have the chance to destroy our ancient enemies without endangering Aesir lives." Loki paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less forceful. "I was wrong about the Bifrost. I nearly destroyed all the Nine Realms; and I _did_ destroy our connection to them. As a result of those actions, I fell into the Void. And I was found by a creature even more dangerous, more vicious than the Jotuns: Thanos."

Odin's chin dropped at that, but he did not speak to interrupt Loki. Thor looked cautiously up at his brother and noticed sweat gleaming on Loki's brow, though his expression was the same: stern, Thor thought suddenly. Loki looked stern.

"Some call him the world-eater," he said. "He is a being whose like I have never before seen in any of the Nine Realms. He leads an army of creatures called the Chitauri, and his goal is to bring every being in the universe under his control—or to destroy them."

The whispers started up again, some incredulous, other worried. Loki gave no sign that he could hear them. He swayed on his feet—a small movement, barely noticeable—and Thor tensed. _Loki, you fool,_ he thought, and clenched his teeth, hoping Loki would finish his speech—for at some point, this had turned into a speech—soon.

"In Thanos's grip, I had a choice. Pretend to submit to his rule, or die. With the one, I had a chance of undermining his plans to destroy Midgard and the other realms; with the other, I would be nobly—and uselessly—dead." Loki bit the last word off, a touch of anger entering his voice for the first time. Sweat beaded at his temple. "Though his powers allowed him to invade my very mind, I did everything I could to subvert his plans and seek out a weapon powerful enough to destroy him for good—all the while pretending to follow his orders. With the help of Thor and the Midgardians, Thanos's forces were driven out of Midgard—and I located a weapon to kill him. A weapon long thought lost."

Thor felt a moment of irritation—he was not Loki's assistant, to helpfully display each bit of evidence as Loki named it—before he reached into the satchel again and removed the knife, gripping it by the leather sheath that Natasha had provided. He placed it on the ground atop the gray tunic, then rose, deciding his show of filial respect was likely not being interpreted as such. Loki didn't bother to look over as the room buzzed.

"The knife forged by Borr for the mortals," he said, and the buzz shifted to a higher pitch. "A weapon that can kill an Aesir is a weapon that can kill Thanos."

A familiar snort came from the crowd. Loki flinched, but didn't turn, and when the snort wasn't followed by Sigyn's loud denunciation, Loki continued.

"Everything I have done—every action, every deception, every plan—I undertook with the intent of protecting Asgard. I made mistakes. I took actions that, with the clear eyes of hindsight, were at best ill-planned; at worst, disastrous. Those actions resulted in the deaths of two Aesir on Asgard; damage to the Bifrost; and the deaths of many Midgardians." Loki swallowed. Thor watched him sway and visibly stiffen in an attempt to stay upright. His voice strengthened. "Had I stood by—had I done _nothing_ —I believe more would be dead. More Aesir; more mortals; more Vanir and Alfar. I followed my duty; and if you would condemn me for that—or because my duty led me to act against those who find more favor in your hearts than I—then it will be my duty to accept the punishment you decide."

For a moment, Thor only felt relief that Loki had finally stopped talking: he was two shades paler than when he started, his face covered in a sheen of sweat, his weight shifted to favor his broken leg. Then Loki's words sunk in. _Somehow_ Loki had fit all of his actions over the last year—from lying to murder to attempted genocide—inside a gilt frame labeled _duty_. Thor stared at his brother. He couldn't decide which possibility horrified him more: that Loki actually believed what he was saying, or that he could deliver lies with so much conviction that the quality of some of the whispers in the throne room included _sympathy._

"Have you finished, Loki?" Odin said, his voice low and deadly. The room went silent.

"Yes, All-Father," Loki said.

"Then all of you are dismissed. Guards, Thor, Loki, you will stay." Some of the nobles let out gasps and grunts of startlement; as their surprised conversation turned into a loud buzz, Loki's jaw tightened. He locked eyes with Odin. "You've had your audience, Loki," he said, then roared, "Guards! Clear this room!"

The nobles began to leave their benches, their parting glances divided between Odin and Loki, their hushed conversations a mix of outrage and curiosity. Thor's heart pounded harder in his chest as the sound of the nobles leaving diminished, until the great doors of the throne room closed, and there was only silence. Silence, and Odin's unblinking stare.

_Gods have mercy,_ Thor thought, and swallowed.


	35. Chapter 35

Kate turned off the shower and stepped out. She dried herself gingerly, still half-expecting to feel the sharp hot shock of the burns she'd received in Loki's body. _It was good_ , she told herself, _it was good she didn't feel those any more, it was good being back in her own body_ , but it was strange, too, because she still felt them, sometimes: the pull of burnt skin on her chest, the ache of her broken leg, the stitches in her mouth.

She dried off and went back to her room and dressed in her own clothes, and that made her feel a little more like herself. She stuffed her Avengers-clothes in her hamper, then leaned on the lid.

_Food,_ she told herself. _Then you can sleep for the next twenty-four hours. Take a bunch of Nyquil if you have to._

Food meant facing Kinsley again, though. Maybe she should just lay down. Pretend to sleep.

"You're going to have to talk to her, Kate," Loki said. He stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, legs crossed in front of him, arms folded, watching her. His eyes glowed in the dark like a cat.

"I know," Kate said to the hamper.

"You don't have to tell her everything."

"I'm not _going_ to," Kate said, irritated. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

He stepped away from the wall and approached her. She flinched, then relaxed when he didn't touch her. "I don't think you're an idiot," he said softly. "I think you're tired. I think you're afraid. I think you feel alone." He laid one hand atop hers. "I can help you with at least one of those feelings."

She took a deep breath, then lifted her hand and laced her fingers with Loki's. "Why are you being sweet?" she asked, not looking at him. "You're not sweet. You're an asshole. And you don't really care about me. You were just using me."

"Maybe," Loki said, and she shouldn't have found his touch comforting, she shouldn't have felt her heartbeat slowing down at the sound of his voice. "Maybe I didn't care about you at first. Maybe you're changing my mind."

"Maybe you're what I want you to be," Kate whispered. "Maybe you're not Loki at all. Maybe I'm crazy and you're my imaginary . . . whatever."

"Kate." Loki waited, then repeated himself more insistently. " _Kate._ " When she looked up, he touched her chin with a single finger. "Maybe I'm not the Loki you knew. But I am real." His bright green eyes dropped to her lips, then rose to her eyes. "And I'm more like him than you believe."

She held back for a moment, resisting, because he'd admitted it, hadn't he? He wasn't Loki. Not the Loki she'd met at the library, not the Loki who'd found her in the streets of New York and saved her life and asked her to help him save the universe.

His greenglass eyes were patient. He wasn't real. But when she leaned in, when she closed her eyes and opened her mouth, he _felt_ real: his strong sure mouth moving over hers, his big hand suddenly tightening as if he wanted to keep her from running away. She tasted mint on his breath, and he smelled like Asgard, like leather and gold and green things and sunlight; and when his arms wrapped her she could feel his metal bracers through her shirt, the flexible hardness of the armor over his chest, the insistent strength of his mouth. She broke the kiss and leaned her forehead against his chest while she tried to catch her breath. Loki bent his head, and when he whispered, she felt his breath on her ear and the vibrations of his voice in his chest.

"I won't leave you, little one." He stroked her arm, and she closed her eyes and shivered. "I promise."

There was a soft knock at the door. "Hey, Katie?" Kinsley called, her voice low. "Are you awake?"

Kate swallowed, but didn't let go of Loki. "Yes," she said.

"Food's ready whenever you are."

"Thanks."

The floor creaked as Kinsley moved away. Loki's chest rose and fell with his breathing; his chin settled lightly atop her head.

"Your friend's waiting."

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. "I don't want to go."

His arms tightened around her. "You don't have to." She could feel the flat of his hand over the plane of her shoulderblade, strong and unwavering. _Not imaginary._ "You can stay here as long as you want."

Kate counted to ten in her head, then made herself let go. Loki released her reluctantly, trailing his hands down her arms, but he let her go, then stood there, waiting. "I'll be back," she said.

As if he was a real person. As if he didn't exist only in her head. She closed her eyes and turned her back on Loki before she opened them again, then she made herself walk to the door without hesitating. She turned down the hall and walked into the kitchen, where Kinsley was elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing something, studiously not looking at Kate.

"Plate's in the oven," she said.

"Thanks," Kate said. She stood at the edge of the kitchen, where the cheap plastic floor gave way to the cheap carpet, and she wished she knew what to say to take the tightness out of Kinsley's shoulders.

When she didn't move to the oven, Kinsley looked up. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of the water and her mouth was a thin line, her brows scrunched together. She looked at Kate and her hands stilled.

For the first time, the cleanness of the kitchen registered with Kate. The floor had been mopped; the stovetop had been cleaned and the drip-pans under the burners scrubbed; the single window over the sink gleamed; even the menus and lists on the fridge had been straightened.

"Kitchen looks nice."

Kinsley looked into the sink. "Yeah." She didn't start scrubbing again.

Clean _anything_ was rarely a good sign in their apartment, unless it was pre-possibly-bringing-someone-home-on-a-date clean, and Kinsley wasn't seeing anyone seriously at the moment. Cleaning was what one or the other of them did when they were stressed out, or procrastinating, or stressed out and procrastinating; otherwise, they were both largely content to live in a state of filth slightly less than that which would attract insects. Kate looked away from her roommate, because she felt like she was staring. In the living room, the television stand had been pulled away from the wall and angled to face her direction. Into the kitchen.

The proverbial lightbulb went on.

"Kinsley, did you . . . were you worried about me?"

Her roommate's head tipped back from the force of her eyeroll. "Kate."

"I didn't—" Kate stopped. No, she hadn't meant to worry Kinsley, but she had. She'd scared the hell out of Kinsley. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"It's not okay," Kate said, and her hands itched with the urge to turn Kinsley around, to sit her down and tell her everything. "I freaked you out, and that's not okay."

Kinsley shot her a sidelong look. "You were kind of in the middle of an alien invasion. I'm guessing there were other things to worry about besides checking in with your roommate."

"Yeah, but that doesn't make it okay."

A little bit of the hurt left Kinsley's shoulders. Not all of it, but a little bit. She turned back to the sink and started to scrub.

"Your eggs are gonna be rubber."

"Gourmet rubber," Kate said, and finally, it felt like she could go in the kitchen. She took the plate out of the oven—omelet with Swiss, and Kinsley had found a sprig of thyme somewhere for a garnish, though it had wilted. She sat at the kitchen table and ate while Kinsley scrubbed, and she didn't know until she sat down how much she had needed this: good food in a place where she felt safe, around someone she loved and trusted, with no questions and no conversations and no weirdness. A moment when she could pretend that everything was normal, that this was just another day, just another ordinary day . . .

"Hey, so, we're down to two eggs and no milk," Kinsley said over the sloshing of the sink. "Pretty sure we've got Samoas in the freezer, but unless you want to eat cookies for breakfast and lunch tomorrow, we should probably hit the grocery store. Do you want me to make a fast run by myself, or do you wanna make a midnight Walmart run with me after you get out of work?"

"Work?"

Kinsley turned long enough to raise an eyebrow at her before returning to her sink. "Work. At the library. Where you are employed. Where your boss has been freaking out even more than me."

"Shit," Kate said under her breath. Ana Diadorim, her boss, did not deal with surprises well. She didn't like _switched shifts_ if they weren't at least a month in advance. She was not going to handle Kate's disappearance well.

So much for spending the rest of the day sleeping.

She looked down at her half-eaten omelet and knew she should eat the rest of it—she was hungry enough—but mention of her boss had sent her temporarily-tamped-down feelings of guilt soaring, and that made her queasy. She set her fork down.

Groceries. A story for Ana. And she'd missed at least one shift at the library, maybe two—she'd have to make that up somehow, probably with whoever had taken hers, and that might mean nine days of work in a row, now that she was thinking of it, and if she went grocery shopping with Kinsley then she'd need to make sure she had money on her debit card and _shit_ Loki had used her cards, hadn't he, and even if he knew about credit card limits he might not have cared, and had he paid for the flight to Sweden with Jedi mind tricks or had he charged it because _holy shit_ if there was a short-notice international business class ticket on her credit card then she was going to be paying so many fines and jesus fuck if her minimum payments went up—

"Kate? You okay?"

She wanted to puke.

"I'm fine," Kate said, but she wasn't fine, her heart was racing and her heart had stopped recently and god did it feel like something was off? Was she going to have a heart attack and drop dead in Kinsley's nice clean kitchen after surviving a fucking _alien invasion_ and a _kidnapping_ and _torture by fucking monsters_ and holy shit her heart was going to explode—

"Breathe," Loki said, one cool hand on her forehead and the other on her back. "Take a deep breath for me, little one."

She sucked in air. Kinsley set a glass of water in front of her and looked from one of Kate's eyes to the other. "Talk to me, Katie. What's going on?"

"Just panicking," Kate said.

"Shh," Loki said, starting to rub her back in small circles. "Shh, little one. Shhh."

"It's okay, Kate. You're home. You're safe. Nobody's gonna hurt you," Kinsley said, and took Kate's hand. Her brown eyes were calm and sure and Kate fixed her gaze on them, because if she looked at Loki then Kinsley would know she was seeing things, she was hallucinating and she was crazy and she didn't need to put that kind of burden on Kinsley, not after making her freak out—

"Katie. Do you remember the guy with the dumb dog? The dog that couldn't catch the Frisbee? I ran into him at the bookstore the other day. He was looking at the dog training books, I shit you not, but it was, like, the advanced dog training books . . ."

Kinsley talked in a low, even, constant babble, one inconsequential story rolling into another, and with her holding Kate's hand and Loki rubbing her back, Kate's heartrate gradually slowed and she felt less like dying. Instead, she started crying. Big fat tears, rolling down her face.

Kinsley noticed. She didn't stop talking; she just stood and found a clean kitchen towel and handed it to Kate. She left her hand on Kate's knee while she sobbed into the towel, and that was how Kate's first hour back in Albany ended: weeping into a dishtowel over half an omelet, her roommate telling her dog stories and her imaginary friend rubbing her back.

Coming home sucked.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad things are happening on Alfheim and in Loki's head. Content warnings: non-graphic mentions of mass murder and the death of children; brief disturbing imagery.

Loki watched the nobles leave and thought he'd done a passable job of playing to the court factions.

Not everyone in Asgard loved Thor. These people didn't necessarily like Loki, but that didn't matter. They could make use of the narrative that Loki had offered them: a story in which Thor was unready for the throne. A story in which Odin acted capriciously, hastily, in contradiction.

Asgard was a monarchy, but there were members of the nobility who could make Odin's rule difficult if they chose. If Loki's speech convinced even one of them—or, more accurately, if it convinced Odin that some of the nobles might be convinced—then Odin couldn't simply execute Loki. He might still do any number of unpleasant things to Loki, certainly, but he would have to consider whether his actions would put a weapon in the hands of the less . . . accommodating of Asgard's great families.

Thor was looking at him with confusion and the beginnings of anger in his bright blues. Loki thought he'd been rather generous in his characterization of Thor's actions, but he supposed Thor might see things differently.

Kate snorted. "You think?"

 _Not now, little one,_ he thought, swaying on his feet, and forced his face into smooth blandness. Kate slipped her arm through his, and though it shouldn't have made a difference—she was an illusion, a hallucination—he felt steadier.

The great doors of the throne room swung shut, the _thud_ of their closing vibrating through the floor. Odin looked down at them, his expression unreadable.

"Where is Fridur Dofrisdotter?"

Of all the questions, accusations, and insults Loki had imagined Odin hurling at him, this had not been one. "She has returned to Alfheim, Father," Thor said. His brother glanced at him, then looked at Odin. Before anyone could speak, a door to one of the anterooms opened and an Alfar in armor strode out, trailed by Sif.

"Returned to Alfheim? When?" she snapped, striding toward Thor. The guards stirred uneasily, but she ignored them, and a quick gesture from Odin returned them to stillness. Her lacquered armor was deep blue, the color of a clear night sky; her scarf was a shade darker than her armor and wrapped tightly around her head, covering her hair but leaving her pointed ears free. At her hip hung a mace that, despite the decorative carving along its shaft, was dented and scratched with use. Her black brows gathered in a bristle of anger when she stopped before Thor and glared up at him.

"The moment we arrived on Asgard, my lady," Thor said. He glanced at Odin, then back at the blue-armored Alfar. "Perhaps an hour ago—"

The Alfar turned to Odin. "If she took her usual path, she will fall into their hands—we must leave immediately—"

"Lieutenant Vidblainn," Odin boomed. "If that is the case, hurrying after her will not save her; it will only give hostages to those you fight."

The Alfar seemed to expand with anger, her hand on her belt near her mace. "I do not fear being taken hostage; I fear Bui will—"

Odin raised his hand peremptorily and interrupted. "Lieutenant," was all he said, but it was enough that she cut herself off.

Dusty memories of Alfar lineage and politics finally attached themselves to the names Loki had heard. Fridur Dofrisdotter: oldest child of Dofri, king of Alfheim; well-liked by her people, given military responsibility as Captain of the Guard. Bui: younger brother to Fridur, second in line to the throne; loyal, a competent young man by Alfar standards, well-treated by his family and well-mannered, for a prince. Lieutenant Vidblainn: if she was the Vidblainn Loki remembered, then she was Fridur's second-in-command and consort—an unusual pairing of roles, even for Alfar, but not unheard-of.

"What the hell is going on, Loki?" Kate asked, still holding his arm.

_Nothing good._

"Lieutenant," Thor said, his voice lowered, "is the Lady Fridur in danger?"

She spun at the sound of his voice, eyes narrowed, sharp teeth gleaming in a soundless snarl.

"Guards," Odin said, standing. "Leave us."

The throne room was silent for a moment before it filled with the clack of retreating boots. Loki felt oddly exposed as the guards withdrew, leaving him alone beside Thor. Odin descended the steps of the dais, sending a significant look at Sif when he reached the floor. She nodded and ducked away as Odin crossed toward Thor, Loki, and Vidblainn. Kate's arm tightened on Loki's.

 _Easy, little one,_ Loki told her, but found himself tensing as well.

Odin ignored him.

"Alfheim is in chaos," Odin said. Vidblainn's hand clenched on her belt, but Odin seemed not to notice. "Shortly after Fridur left for Midgard, a force of Chitauri attacked Windkeep. They entered the castle."

Thor grunted in surprise. Loki's stomach dropped. Windkeep, unlike the royal palace of Asgard, was not set in the middle of a city: it was built into the side of a mountain, windswept, lonely, and nearly impregnable.

"How many were killed?" Loki asked. Vidblainn turned her gaze away suddenly; Odin didn't look at him as he answered.

"All but Bui Dofrison."

"I mean among the royal family," Loki said, because Odin's answer made no sense. Odin turned his single eye on Loki and horror froze Loki's heart a moment before Odin spoke.

"All but Bui Dofrison."

The words were only sounds, a meaningless string of sounds, and then they were a memory: the assembled court of Alfheim the last time that he and Thor had visited, a routine diplomatic courtesy nearly disrupted by the loutish conduct of Volstagg later that evening. Before that near-brawl in the streets, though, there had been the court of Dofri and his consort Kjalne: Dofri's sister—also called Fridur, Loki remembered—and her consort and children, Fridur and her brother Bui, their milk-siblings Jokull and Yngvi, Vidblainn—wearing a deep-blue dress, Loki remembered finally, over her gravid belly—and half a dozen barely-contained bastards being shepherded by a long-suffering nursemaid, who quieted their giggling only at the sight of their Aesir visitors.

Loki remembered the big eyes of the children when Thor had approached them after the official ceremony. He had knelt so they could feel his oddly-rounded ears with their tiny hands, could tug on his lip to see his square teeth, and somehow two of them had ended up on his broad shoulders, clinging to the wings on his helmet and squealing with delight. Loki had stood back, torn between irritation with Thor's utter lack of decorum and a grudging amusement at the sight of his brother covered in Alfar brats.

"The children?" Loki whispered, heart thudding. Odin had turned away.

"All but Bui Dofrison."

He would have fallen if Thor had not grabbed his arm painfully tight. His face felt numb. His legs were nerveless prosthetics, his hands wooden carvings. _All but Bui._ Bui and Fridur.

_Gods preserve us._

Some cruel instinct sent his gaze to Vidblainn—Vidblainn who had been with child years ago, Vidblainn whose child would have been in Windkeep—and by accident, he met her eyes.

Her hand slid to her mace, long fingers wrapping hungrily around the shaft. "This is your doing," she whispered, and slid the mace from its holster and into her palm with the quick ease of long practice. "You brought the Chitauri to the Nine Realms—"

Before Vidblainn could smash Loki's skull in, the anteroom doors that Vidblainn and Sif had come through earlier banged open and Sigyn glided through, followed in a rush by Sif, the Warriors Three, and half a dozen Alfar warriors.

"My lord, I'm sorry, we couldn't—" Fandral began to say.

"This is Thanos's doing," Sigyn said, her voice crisp and calm and ringing. "He is controlling someone on Alfheim, likely Bui Dofrison." She made a beeline for Loki, her green eyes intent.

"Uhhh . . . what's your girlfriend doing?" Kate asked, eyebrows raised. "I thought this was a super secret meeting?"

Before he could reply—and before anyone else could react—Sigyn was standing in front of Loki. She reached for his face, and at the contact of her hand against his cheek, light blinded Loki and Kate began swearing loudly.

"He's in Loki's head," Loki heard Sigyn pronounce distantly; then he felt Kate's arm jerked from his.

"Loki!" Kate screamed. "It's him! It's Thanos!"

The light that had blinded Loki cleared from his vision. He was alone in the throne room—Thor, Odin, Sigyn, Vidblainn, Sif and the Warriors Three had all disappeared.

"Loki!" Kate screamed, and then her screams turned wordless and full of agony. Loki turned and nearly fell, looking for her, but the sound encircled him without coming from any single point.

"Kate?" he called out, his heart racing. "Kate, where are you?"

"She's mine," Thanos rumbled, his voice so loud that Loki winced and covered his ears, ducking his head instinctively. "As are you."

"No!" Kate shrieked. "Loki, get out! Get out, now!"

She let out a piercing scream, and then Loki smelled it.

Burnt hair.

"Kate!" he bellowed. He took a limping step forward, but the throne room was vast and empty and— _darkening_ , as if night was falling.

"Loki, this is in your head, you—" She cut herself off with a lower, agonized groan that turned into a series of sobs and gasping breaths. Loki turned in circles, searching the room frantically. She sounded closer, like she was nearby—

"You have to get out," she groaned, then coughed wetly. "Loki, get _out._ Get out of this dream. I'm not real, remember, I'm not—"

Her words were interrupted by a long, high shriek, and then the throne room was dark but she was there, bound to the same rack that Thanos had tortured Loki on, her naked body visible in the flickering orange light of the flames, but it wasn't her body because instead of the smooth plane of her stomach there was the hard arch of her ribs and below it gleaming masses that were—

"Get out, Loki," she said, her words slurred by the blood pouring from her mouth. Somehow her face turned toward him in the dark, though there were black holes where her eyes should have been. "Loki, go—"

"Loki goes nowhere," Thanos whispered in Loki's ear.

And then the screaming really started.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: some sensuality; disturbing imagery; discussion/depiction of character depression, anxiety, hallucinations, stress.

"Excuse me? Ex _cuse_ me?"

Kate tightened her grip on the uncapped pen she'd been playing with, then forced her fist hard against the counter and tried to smile. The gangly sophomore stuck his lower lip out farther.

"Um, the _printer_ is out of _paper_ ," he said.

She made herself take a deep breath. Her chest felt tight, like every muscle was clenched and refusing to loosen. "I'm sorry, but the printers belong to the Copy Shop," she said. "If you call the number on the machine—"

"My homework is due tomorrow at seven thirty," he said. His jaw was lined with patchy stubble; his breath smelled of corn chips and an energy drink that probably had a name with _blast_ or _surge_ or _ejaculation_ in it.

Kate smiled and wished for shark teeth. "The computer labs in the Science and Mathematics library should be open tonight," she said.

"But I already paid for printing," he said, his voice taking on the distinctive whine of those who think they aren't whining.

"You can ask for a refund—"

"Ugh," he said. _Aloud._ With an eyeroll.

"Go for the eyes," Loki said, propping his hip against the counter. He plucked a pen from her pen-cup. "Allow me."

Her smile tightened—even though Loki wasn't real, even though he _couldn't_ stab the irritating frat boy before her with a pen, she found herself anticipating gleefully what Loki would do. Something in her expression made the boy back off. She watched him go.

"Disappointing," Loki said, his eyes narrowed. He drew his legs up onto her desk and crossed them, then began rolling the pen across his knuckles. "I rather hoped to teach him some manners." He turned suddenly to Kate. "Did I teach you the thumb thing?"

Kate shuddered. "Yes, you taught me the thumb thing," she said under her breath. "I wish you _hadn't_ taught me the thumb thing."

Loki returned his focus to his pen. He began flipping it between his long, clever fingers. "Come, Kate. You asked if I knew any simple, non-lethal defensive strategies."

"It's gross."

"Would you rather kill or permanently lame your enemies? I have ways that are less 'gross' than displacing an eye from the socket."

Kate put her palms over her eyes to still her twitching eyelid. "Don't _say_ it." She lifted her head to glare at Loki, who was watching her with an amused smile curling the corners of his lips. "I don't need to do _anything_ to my enemies. I don't _have_ enemies."

The smile disappeared. "I beg to differ."

Kate sighed. "Not the kind I need to fight. Physically."

"I disagree," Loki said under his breath, and he was right, sort of. She would rather have gotten in a fistfight with Ana this afternoon than what had actually happened. There had been invocations of responsibility, and duty, and liability, and honesty, and _God_ she wished Ana would have just beaten her around the head with the employee handbook or something. At least then she'd have bruises that she could put ice on, instead of a rattling skull full of phrases that kept rising up to cut her: _I expected more from you,_ and _I'm going to have to discuss this with the director,_ and the best one, _there will be consequences._ "Consequences." If she tried to repeat it to Kinsley, she knew it would sound ridiculous, it would sound like something a first-grade teacher threatened a misbehaving student with, but in her head, it reverberated like a church bell on doomsday. _Consequences_.

She couldn't afford consequences. Not with her checking account five dollars from being overdrawn (she owed Kinsley fifty-two dollars for that, thank God her Amtrak ticket hadn't actually gone through until today or she would accumulated three days' worth of interest and fees) and her one credit card maxed out.

But all of that was just distraction from the real problem.

Kate turned over her hands. _One-two-three-four-five_ , each finger curling when she commanded it; and yet they didn't feel like her hands, like her fingers. And thinking about that, the way her own body seemed strange to her, too short, too weak, too small, that was a distraction as well.

She raised her head. Loki looked down at her, green eyes sharp, the tiny, almost sweet, half-smile fading from his lips. She looked away from him, fixing her gaze on the counter, because that was what she needed to start doing, now; not because she couldn't face him while she said what had to be said.

"I can't be the woman who talks to herself, Loki."

He went still, silencing the dozens of tiny sounds his clothing made—the whisper of cloth, the creak of leather, the clink of armor—and the absence was what made her realize that she'd gotten used to the sound of him. Not just when she _was_ him—when she'd filtered out the sound of his clothes and armor because they were the soundtrack to her movement, her existence—but afterward, too, when he was only in her head. He had been there since she woke up wearing borrowed clothes and her own body, in that stranger's bed in Stark Tower, and sometimes she'd seen him and sometimes she hadn't, but he'd been there. Following her, maybe. _Protecting you,_ he'd say.

"Why the hell not?" he said, his voice low and controlled and hot with rage.

And betrayal.

The tears took her by surprise. She thought she'd cried herself out. _At least I'm not sobbing,_ she thought, and sniffled, looking down at the desk while tear-tracks cut across her face a-fucking- _gain_.

"If I'm coming back, I have to come all the way back. I have to give you up, Loki."

And dammit, if not for this afternoon, it wouldn't have been so hard. If he had just been the Loki who'd harassed her on Asgard—who'd questioned her sanity, and told her she was a fool, and mocked her every chance he could—then it wouldn't have been easy, because he'd survived that with her, he'd kept her alive in his fucked-up way, but it would have been easier. It would have been easier to give up that Loki than the one who'd helped her trick the Avengers, the one who'd held her hand while she lied to her mother and her best friend, the one who—the one who—

_She told Kinsley she was going to nap for an hour, and Kinsley knew it was a lie. Kinsley knew, too, that it was a white lie: that Kate said "nap" when she meant that she couldn't take being around Kinsley any longer, that she had to have some time alone or she would scream. Kinsley had nodded, her eyes sad, and promised to wake Kate up before work._

_Kate closed the door and sat on her bed._

_And that was all. She sat. She felt like wet clay in the shape of a woman, unable to move._

_Loki sat beside her. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He didn't touch her. He was just there, weighing down the edge of the mattress, breathing, so that she wasn't alone with the hollow awful feeling that nothing mattered anymore. The feeling of uselessness that had been dogging her since the Tower, since she and Loki switched back, since she stopped being important. Stopped being part of a plan to save the world and started being a detail. A loose end._

_He had been sitting with his hands resting on his thighs. He turned his left hand over, so that it rested palm-up, and did nothing else. Kate looked down at the hand that had been her own, the hand she had cut open in a desperate attempt to speak. She covered the pink scar on Loki's palm, then she leaned into his side, firm and warm and real._

_"If Thor and Loki have a chance of defeating Thanos," Loki said, "it's because you gave it to them, Kate Sullivan."_

One-two-three-four-five. Fingers moving in concert over an unscarred palm.

"I don't want you to go," Kate said. Her small, weak, human hands. "I—like you, Loki. This you." She swiped at her tears before they could drip onto the counter. "But you're a crutch. I'm talking to you instead of Kinsley. Thinking about you instead of my life, here. Talking to you—talking to you _now_ , in public, when that's the kind of thing that could get me fired."

He inhaled, and she waited for him to speak. When he did, she could hear the anger he was holding back, the cutting words he'd set aside.

"I could be discreet."

She closed her eyes and her chest hurt and her face hurt and everything hurt, because that was begging, for Loki. She was making him beg and if she'd ever wanted to do that before, she didn't want to now. Four little words, but they were like glass under her skin.

"No."

He had been sitting on the desk; now he was looming next to her.

"Look at me."

_He raised her hand to his lips and he kissed her knuckles and it was the small wet sound of his lips parting that made her shudder. The sound of his lips made her lift her head and look into his eyes and kiss him. His hands went to her hips, slid to her waist, but she was the one who pushed him onto his back. She hooked her fingers into the collar of his tunic and pulled down, and armor and cloth alike had come apart under her hand in ways that followed no logic and left him bare to her, from the hollow of his throat to the dip of his navel._

"Gods damn you, Kate, _look at me._ If you're going to turn your back on me, the least you can do is look in my eyes when you tell me to burn in Hel."

She didn't open her eyes. She repeated her words to herself: _I can't be the woman who talks to herself in public._

"Am I just a daydream to you, Kate? A fantasy? Your sweet little fantasy of fucking a god?"

_"Kate," he said, and his green eyes were black with desire. She swallowed back his name a dozen times, two dozen times, as he brought her shuddering and arching to climax. "Kate," he had whispered, and growled, and moaned, and screamed, and when they were curled together, heads sharing the same pillow, his face tucked against hers, he had whispered her name again, and she had breathed his. Some last, tiny bit of tension had disappeared from him, and as he pooled against her, he had whispered, his lips pressed against the skin behind her ear, "I'll keep you safe."_

His hands came down on the back of her chair. "You think if you turn your back on me it'll all go away. You think if you ignore me, then you'll be able to forget about Asgard. You'll be able to forget about Fridur, and Thor, and Steve Rogers, and Tony Stark. You'll forget that you _used to be_ important. You'll forget that your entire existence is a futile cycle of consumption and excretion, numbing pleasures and dull pains, that nothing you do after this point matters. Whether you die now or in fifty years—the only worthwhile thing you'll ever do in your entire life _is done_. Over."

The words should have made her angry. But she had been Loki, once. She knew that he was most vicious when pain overwhelmed him. That the only way he knew to make his own hurting stop was to hurt someone else.

_He fit his body to hers, his belly to her back, his thighs behind her thighs, his arm overlapping hers. His fingers knit with her fingers, and she felt his heartbeat against her spine, his breath on her scalp, as if they were becoming one._

He was trying to hurt her because weakness was dangerous on Asgard, and no one knew that better than Loki.

He leaned on her chair, bringing his lips close to her ear. "You would banish me, Kate?" he hissed. She flinched at the touch of his breath. "You whose love I prize as a dead carcass that corrupts my air?" He leaned in still closer, until his lips brushed her ear. " _I banish you_."

Then he was gone.

\---

She kept it together for about five minutes: long enough to wipe her cheeks, blow her nose, resettle herself in her chair, and check out a book for a student. The girl looked warily at Kate's face, like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to or not.

"Are you okay?" she asked, finally, and the thin thread holding Kate together snapped.

She pressed her lips together and made the corners of her mouth lift. "I'm fine," she said. "Thanks."         

The girl gave her a doubting look, and Kate stretched the smile thinner. The girl walked away. Kate's throat hurt.

 _First of all: He was a jerk. A manipulative, sneaky jerk who called you names and didn't respect you. Second: you weren't dating, Jesus, Kate, you knew him for a week and you slept with him once, that's not dating, that's a hookup. Third: he's a homicidal alien prince who tried to kill an entire planet because he couldn't deal with being adopted. That is the_ definition _of a slow-mo car crash, Kate, and getting out now was the only smart move._

_Finally: HE'S FUCKING IMAGINARY._

She rubbed at her eyes until stars burst behind them. Maybe the Loki in her head _was_ imaginary. He was still based on a real person, on memories, plans, a personality. And that person—well.

He wasn't nice. He wasn't kind. If she thought about it—really thought about it—he was scary, honestly, when it came to justifying what he wanted. He looked at the big picture—at the _really_ big picture—and in that picture, she and everyone she loved were acceptable sacrifices, which wasn't a good thing to hear.

But that was how he was raised: to look at the big picture. To see things in terms of thousands of lives saved and lost. He was an alien prince who'd been raised to think of the entire universe as his responsibility, so a dozen lives, a hundred lives, one city, even one planet, weighed against all the life that was out there in the Nine Realms?

If she had to make that call, she would have said yes to Thanos, too. Said yes and hated herself for it, but she would have said it.

Just like Loki.

She fumbled for the _librarian away_ sign and dropped it on the counter, then stood and left the desk. She crossed the atrium to the bathrooms, keeping her head down; she didn't want to make any more awkward excuses to students. Not while her head was a mess of justifications and arguments and the unspoken, irrational, heart-lacerating certainty that her imaginary boyfriend had been hurt when she broke up with him.

The motion-activated lights clicked on when she entered. The lights were the most modern part of the women's restrooms; everything else was circa 1983, from the sea foam floor tiles to the white porcelain sinks to the fold-down purse shelves in the stalls. Kate went to the farthest sink, turned on the water, and splashed her face, then cupped her hands and drank handful after handful until her throat was soothed and her belly sloshing.

She splashed her face one more time, then lifted her head, still dripping, and looked into the mirror. The skin under her eyes was puffy _(thank God she hadn't tried to put on makeup this afternoon)_ and her eyes were bloodshot. _Come on,_ she told herself. _You can do this. A couple more hours, then sleep._

"Can you?" a deep voice said.

Kate froze. Her eyes traveled slowly sideways to the figure reflected in the mirror behind her.

Her brain refused to identify him at first, because he didn't fit— _literally,_ he was too tall, his body too big. But somehow the bathroom had warped so that Thanos sat in a black throne behind her, blue eyes gleaming with giddy malice.

_Fucking FUCK._

_Hallucination. It's a hallucination. You are seeing shit, Kate, you are SEEING shit that isn't real._

She wanted to run, _holy hell_ there had never been a time in her life when she wanted to run more, she had an _epic_ case of the ghosties, but she made herself stick her hands back in the sink water. She splashed her face—clumsily, getting water on her shirt—and clenched her teeth.

_Not. Real._

"And what do you know of reality?" Thanos said, sounding amused. "You don't even know who you are, Loki."

Her heart skipped. She looked down at the water circling the drain.

"You're very creative, trickster. I find myself quite entertained by the lengths you’ve gone to in your attempts to escape the truth. Invasions and treachery and magical weapons and body-swapping and frost giants—you would have been a fine storyteller, Loki."

"I'm not Loki," Kate whispered. Thanos laughed, and Kate winced at the sound.

The women's bathroom always smelled of menstrual blood by the end of the night, but now the smell was so thick in the air that Kate choked on it. She pulled her t-shirt up over her nose and tried to smell the detergent, but blood was thick in her nose and her mouth and her throat.

"You've convinced yourself, haven't you? I overestimated your ego; or perhaps I underestimated your will—escaping into this carefully constructed illusion, with its disappointed friends and its menial status, as if you could hide here. As if your mind wasn't as easy for me to peel open as your body."

"It's not real," Kate chanted, squeezing her eyes shut. She coughed on the bloodstink and repeated the words to herself: "It's not real. It's not real. _It's not real._ "

"Open your eyes, Loki," Thanos said, and she didn't want to, but she did, and instead of facing the sink, she was facing Thanos, and instead of her clothes, she was wearing Loki's armor, Loki's coat, her hands were pale and clever and the horned helmet was on her head and Thanos was grinning at her, delighted, because no, she wasn't wearing the armor, she was naked and bound to the rock where Thanos had pulled him out of the void and he was slippery with blood and that was where the bloodsmell was coming from, it was coming from him, from his blood, spilling down his arms and over his chest, and he'd never left, he would never leave, he was bound here forever—

"Kate!"

A door crashed against the tiled wall. She blinked slowly and lifted her head. There was something on her upper lip; when she touched it, her fingers came away bloody. She was slumped against the wall between two sinks, legs spread out before her.

"Kate," a familiar voice repeated, and someone leaned over her, coming between her and the overhead lights. She squinted against the glare. _Loki._ It was Loki.

She wanted to weep.

"Kate," he said, and reached for her. "It's all right, Kate, I won't let him—"

"No!" she screamed. She slapped his hand away and shoved him back as hard as she could. "No, you are _not_ playing me like this, Loki!"

He landed on his ass and stared at her. "What?"

 _You sneaky little fuck_. She vibrated with rage. She wasn't so easily tricked. Not any more.

"Hero's not your type, Loki," she spat. "You don't rescue damsels, you tie them to the fucking tracks. I told you to get out of my head, so _get out._ "

His green eyes sharpened in understanding. "You think that I engineered this?"

She made sure she was looking him straight in the eye. "I think you're a pathetic, whining bastard who won't take no for an answer."

She had a moment—only a moment—to see Loki's lip curl into something halfway between a sneer and a smile before an outsized purple hand clamped onto Loki's shoulder. He let out a surprised shout, then he was lifted into the air.

"There you are, Loki," Thanos rumbled. He shook the Asgardian like a child with a doll, and Loki snarled in pain, one arm gone ominously limp at his side. "Well, well, well. We've become fond of the little human, have we? How unexpected."

"Rot in Hel, monster," Loki said, prying at the Titan's fingers. He aimed a kick at Thanos that fell short, then looked at Kate, his eyes gone desperate. "Run, Kate. Run _now._ "

Kate pressed her back into the wall, her eyes flicking from Thanos to Loki. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. She was hallucinating both of them. She was _hallucinating—_

She coughed. Blood spattered into the hand she used to cover her mouth. She had a moment to see it, to feel it wet and sticky on her hand, before she was coughing again, coughing and gasping for breath, because her mouth was full of blood and her stomach felt like it was being torn apart and it was pouring out of her mouth, blood on her lips, blood running down her chin—

"What do you know of reality?" Thanos said, and began to laugh.

Kate and Loki screamed.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: brief explicit content, disturbing imagery. Also feels. SO MANY FEELS.

"Wake up, dumbass," Kate said.

Loki reached for her without opening his eyes. His hand hit something soft—a stomach that tightened at his touch.

"Oh, right for the muffin top, fuck you very much, Loki." He smiled and trailed his hand upward, only to have it captured. "No. Nope. None of that. Hands off the goods." A second hand joined the first, ensuring Loki couldn't pull free, and a kiss pressed his knuckles. "There," she said, lifting her mouth only enough to speak. He shivered at the feeling of her breath on the back of his hand. "Now quit the Helen Keller act and open your eyes."

He smiled, and waited until she let out an irritated grunt before he obliged. Kate sat on the edge of his bed, still holding his hand in both of hers. She was whole, and smiling, and her brown eyes sparkled with the mischief that had made him—

See her possible use as an ally. Loki's heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. An ally. That was all. And unless Thor had, for some reason, chosen to take him back to Midgard—

No. Loki finally registered his location: his bedroom. But it was strangely bright in his room, as if both the northward and eastward windows were receiving sun at the same time, and what was stranger still was that he could see the north-facing window behind Kate and the curtains were drawn—

"Dreamtime, dummy. Jesus, Loki, keep up with the rest of the class." Kate was still holding his hand, but it rested in her lap, now, atop her thigh. She gave it a brief squeeze. "You're on Asgard, but you're asleep, since you decided it would be a great fucking idea to give a speech on a broken leg. After getting tortured by frost giants and zapping back and forth across the Nine Realms." She looked down her nose at him. "I thought you were supposed to be the smart brother."

"I am," Loki said. His voice came out rusty, as if he hadn't used it in days. He cleared his throat. "What are you doing here?"

Bleakness flashed in Kate's eyes before she smiled. "Keeping an eye on you, dumbo. Thor has to sleep at some point, and I'm pretty sure that Sigyn has better shit to do than hover around your bedside." She tapped her thumbs on the back of his hand and raised her eyebrows. "I like her, by the way. She seems like a badass."

Kate was hiding something. The attempt at deception made Loki feel, paradoxically, more comfortable. He relaxed into his pillows.

He should have pressed Kate into revealing what she was hiding. He should have asked how long he had been sleeping, or what was happening with Alfheim; but he didn't.

He was on Asgard, with Thor watching over him; that was as safe as Loki would ever be. He wasn't in pain, or in danger, and though he knew his surroundings were only a dream, their familiarity comforted. There had been times in the last year that he believed he would never see this room again; and though it wasn't the room he'd missed most, he found a quiet pleasure in looking at the objects he'd gathered over the course of his life so far: bound volumes in a dozen languages, weapons he'd used and weapons he'd taken from his enemies, objects of art and ritual and practicality.

And Kate.

She raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to call her an object he'd collected. She sat with an easy grace, as if she belonged in this room, on his bed, just as much as he did. He liked that.

Which was why he couldn't trust it.

"Why are you here?" he asked. Her mouth tightened before she smiled, a stiff expression that didn't carry a full measure of warmth.

"Like I said, keeping an eye on your dumb ass," she said. "Thanos tried to put you through the wringer. Your docs are trying to pull him out of your head, but until then, I've got your back."

She looked real. She felt real. And yet she wasn't. Loki looked at her—at the face that had become his face, the mouth that had needled him and warned him, encouraged him and excoriated him—and felt angry. She was sarcastic and clever and passionate and he knew—he _thought_ he knew that much of that was really her, Kate the mortal, Kate the human, and even if it wasn't, he _liked_ her, this dream-woman holding his hand.

Thor had Sif, and the Warriors Three, and Jane Foster, and the adoration of half Asgard and Midgard, but Loki—Loki only had Sigyn, sometimes, and no one else. No one but this ghost in his head.

He looked into her brown eyes and thought he saw recognition there. Her stiff, fake smile melted into a half-smile and turned sad. _Of course,_ Loki thought. _She lives in my head, she knows what I'm thinking._ _She knows what I have to ask._ His chest still felt bound by iron.

"What are you?"

"Memories," she said softly. "Wishes." She looked down at Loki's hand and stroked the back of it. "You think that I'm Thanos's creation. That he . . . shaped me into something you could love, for the sole purpose of taking it away."

He hated this conversation. "It's what I would do," he said, lips numb. Kate looked back up at him and her lips pursed and quirked to the side.

"You're a real bastard, Loki, you know that?" she said, her voice almost loving. She huffed softly and looked back down at his hand, her fingers curling to caress the soft underside of his wrist. The angle of her inclined head hid her eyes. Loki shifted, but until she raised her head, he couldn't make eye contact with her, not without contorting himself.

Kate looked up. "Thanos didn't make me," she said.

It was exactly what a simulacra made by Thanos would say, but Loki felt his tension ebbing anyway under Kate's clear, direct gaze. He curled his fingers around hers, savoring their strength, their warmth.

"You called me your conscience, once. Maybe that's part of what I am. But mostly I'm Kate. I have her knowledge. I have her memories. I have her values." She smiled suddenly, brilliantly. "And I have her desires."

His breath caught in his chest. She bent down slowly, giving him time to change his mind, then settled her lips over his. Loki closed his eyes, savoring the touch of her mouth, and pulled gently on her hand until her lips curved, smiling, and she shifted her weight onto her other hand. Her knee slid over his legs, leaving her crouching over him, one hand still wound in his, the other supporting her weight. He found the bottom of her shirt and slid his hand beneath it, sweeping up the curve of her side to the fan of her ribs and the swell of her breast.

She broke off kissing his mouth to follow his jaw back, lowering her weight onto him. "You know," she said into his ear, "in dreams, you don't have to be gentle." Then she bit his neck.

Loki convulsed beneath her, grinding his hips into her with a gasp. "Dammit—"

He could feel her smiling. "Tell me when to stop, Loki."

"Not now," he growled, and with a quick shove, he forced the coverlet down his chest. Kate trapped it across his hips when she rose, one knee on either side of him, but any breath he would have used to object disappeared when she pulled her shirt over her head. He had seen women with bigger breasts and women with lovelier faces, women with tinier waists and women with more perfect asses, but Loki had never seen a woman he wanted more than the one who looked down at him, her hair a halo of curls around her head, a smirk on her face.

"Dammit, Kate," he breathed.

She waggled her eyebrows, and while he was laughing, she shifted her knees and slid the sheets and he wasn't laughing anymore because his cock was hard against the seam of her jeans. She rocked her hips and the sheets gave under his fingers with a _rip_ because she was right, in dreams you didn't have to be gentle. She sucked two fingers into her mouth while he was watching.

"Gods damn you—"

She wrapped her hand around his cock and Loki arched into the bed. She knew him—knew where to touch, how to touch, knew all it would take was hands and teeth to bring him to shuddering, whimpering climax—but she wasn't him; she drew out his pleasure until he was cursing her name, and then he was cursing for another reason, and when there was nothing left, nothing but shivers and aching emptiness, she laid down naked at his side and draped her arm across him, tucking her cheek against his shoulder. He had enough strength to curl his arm around her, and to breathe.

"I'm sorry," she said, her lips brushing his chest.

"Hmm?" he said, eyes half-lidded.

"I wanted to stay," she whispered. "But so did he. I should have been stronger. I should have just gone. I'm sorry, Loki." Her arm wrapped hard across his chest. "I'm so sorry."

And she was gone.

No warmth against his side. No weight pinning down his shoulder.

He sat up, looking for her in the bed. He was alone amid the disordered sheets.

"Kate?" he said, then repeated himself louder, his heart racing. "Kate?"

Outside, the skies darkened as if clouds had raced to cover them. Loki's room dimmed until everything was gray and swamped in shadow. He tried to get up and couldn't.

"Kate!" he shouted.

_"—he's resisting—where's this coming from, this wasn't happening before—"_

Darkness poured into Loki's room, obliterating his furniture. His skin chilled and numbed, until he couldn't feel the sheets beneath him. It didn't feel like he was in bed anymore; it felt like he was laying on rocks.

_"—what's happening to my brother?—"_

A massive, looming shape stepped out of the dark, pushing before it a smaller shape. Red light came through the windows as if the world was on fire, illuminating their faces: Kate. And Thanos.

"Do you love her, Loki?" Thanos asked, his massive hands resting on her shoulders. Tears gleamed on her cheeks.

"No!" Loki shouted. "No, I don't! I don't love her! Damn you, Thanos, get out of my mind!"

He smiled.

"You're not the only one who dreams of me, Loki."

_"—he's crashing!—"_

Loki knew what Thanos was going to do before he did it, but even though he knew, even though he could move again, he couldn't stop the Titan from lifting his hands and placing them on either side of Kate's head.

"Damn you, Thanos, she's not real!" Loki screamed in one last, desperate attempt.

"The other one is," he said, and twisted. Kate dropped like a stringless puppet. Loki threw himself at Thanos, hands curved into claws, but instead of crashing into the Titan, he began to fall. "And she's mine, too," Thanos hissed, his voice filling the darkness, scalding Loki's skin like acid.

_"—my lord, step away—"_

_"—save my brother—"_

_"—Loki, come back—"_

"Kate!" Loki screamed, and fell.


	39. Chapter 39

Kinsley wiped the side of her head against her shoulder as she chopped. "'We'll prop the doors open,' she says," Kinsley muttered. "'It'll be a nice breeze,' she says. 'Like working outdoors,' she says. Bitch, you _ever_ worked outdoors?"

"Fuckin' A," Jeff muttered. He took the onions she had finished chopping and transferred them to his sauté pan with a hiss of oil.

"Seriously. Pretty sure this violates at least two health codes."

"Have fun calling the tipline."

Kinsley snorted. "Yeah, like anyone actually checks the messages on that thing." She finished with the onions and reached for the baby romaine she needed to chop next. "Besides, pretty sure I can't afford—"

"Kinsley!"

"Oooooo…" Jeff said. Kinsley kicked him, then turned around. Cheryl stood in the door to her office, her face unreadable.

"My office."

"Ooooo," Jeff said again. Kinsley rubbed her onion-y hands down the front of her apron, quickly running through everything her manager could be pissed at her about. The only obvious one—the days she'd taken off in the middle of the week, while Kate was missing— _shouldn't_ have been a problem; she'd traded shifts with Ali Rae, so she hadn't left the kitchen uncovered. Of course, if Cheryl was determined to be mad at her about something, it didn't really matter whether she'd done anything wrong or not.

Nothing to be done about it now except to find out what she wanted. Kinsley squared her shoulders and crossed the kitchen to the office, where her manager had already seated herself in the center of her kingdom of liquor boxes and filing cabinets. A depressingly unironic motivational poster with an eagle on it hung on the wall over her desk; underneath it was the Chair of Doom, an old library chair with scratchy upholstery and a tendency to squeak loudly. Kinsley stopped just inside the door.

"What?"

Cheryl frowned. "Close the door."

Kinsley reached back and pulled it closed. When she turned back to her manager, Cheryl had an expression on her face that might, under certain lighting conditions, be considered sympathetic.

"Your . . . roommate works at the university library, right?"

"Yeah." Kinsley frowned. "Why?"

Cheryl shifted uncomfortably. Kinsley wondered idly which one of the many things about Kinsley that made Cheryl uncomfortable was at work at the moment: her skin color? Her gender? Her sexuality? Her politics? _If this economy was any better . . ._ she thought, for the millionth time.

"There was an incident at the library tonight," Cheryl said. She waved a hand at her computer screen. "All they're saying right now is that they had to lock down the library, and someone got taken to the hospital. I thought you should know." She stood up, and Kinsley took an involuntary step back. "If you want to call her here . . . for privacy, I mean."

Kinsley realized her mouth was hanging open. "Uh. Thanks," she said. "Yeah. Yeah, I will."

Cheryl nodded and they did the _pas de two people in a small space_ as Kinsley leaned into the Chair of Doom and Cheryl squeezed past her. Kinsley dug her phone out of her pocket, still distracted by Cheryl, and punched in Kate's number. The phone rang and rang and went to voicemail. Kinsley hung up without leaving a message, then redialed. As the phone rang, she leaned over Cheryl's desk.

_BREAKING NEWS: Disturbance at Memorial Library Leads to Hour-Long Lockdown,_ the headline on the local news page said. The "article" was barely a paragraph long; all it said was that a university employee had been transported to the hospital for a non-life-threatening injury, and someone else had been taken into custody. Police scanner stuff. _Please don't be Katie,_ Kinsley thought, crossing the fingers of her free hand. That was just what her friend needed—a trip to the hospital courtesy of some whacked-out student.

Kate's phone went to voicemail again. Kinsley redialed, clenching her teeth. Normally, she would have left a voicemail and let Kate call her back, because _normally_ Kate would text her back within the hour. Kinsley was pretty sure normal didn't apply any more.

She wrapped her free arm around her ribs and tapped her sneaker along with the rings. _Please don't be hurt_ , Kinsley thought, and closed her eyes. She wished she'd conveniently forgotten to remind Kate about her job this afternoon. God, she'd been so dumb—what if Kate had gotten hurt because she was too tired to think straight, or she wasn't paying close enough attention? She should have just let Kate keep sleeping. Kate's boss might be even more of a jerk than Kinsley's, but seriously, how could you chew someone out for getting stuck in New York during an attack that was even worse than 9/11?

Voicemail. "Fuck," Kinsley said, and dialed again. She held the phone to her ear. _How many times are you going to do this?_ a voice in her head asked her. _Ten times? Fifteen times? You have a job, too._

Fuck that, Kinsley thought immediately. She'd call Kate as many times as she had to. She wasn't letting her friend disappear on her again.

She closed her eyes. _Fuck, maybe it's SHIELD,_ she thought suddenly, and almost hung up the phone.

A bad feeling sank into her stomach as she listened to the voicemail prompt. She wasn't an idiot—she'd figured out that Kate's "Mr. Frost" was the jackass who'd been responsible for the invasion of New York (her mouth had dropped open and she had shaken her head at her computer screen, thinking, _oh, Kate. You and your villain kink_ ) but it was freaking _New York_ , what were the odds that the two of them would have run into each other? Infinitesimal.

Except that a day ago, she'd had Pepper Freaking Potts and the archer dude in her living room, asking questions about Kate. Questions like _who has Kate been talking to_ and _do you think of Kate as a trustworthy person_ and Kinsley had been too freaked out by all of it to do anything but dissemble and lie as much as she could get away with, because she'd figured that Kate was in trouble for helping "Mr. Frost," but now she wondered. What the hell _had_ happened in New York?

She hit redial. Almost immediately, a male voice answered. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Fuck!" Kinsley said, then grimaced. _Good job, K._ "Uh. Kinsley. Who is this? And what are you doing with Kate's phone?" She squeezed her phone so hard that the case squeaked. "Is she okay?"

"This is Officer Ryan Ryl of the Albany police. What's your full name, Kinsley, and what's your relationship to Kate Sullivan?"

Kinsley caught her second _fuck_ before she could breathe it out and clenched her teeth. "Kinsley Estrada," she said. "I'm her roommate. Is she okay? Why are you answering her phone? What's going on?"

"Mr. Estrada, I need you to calm down—"

"Ms.," Kinsley interrupted.

" _Ms._ Estrada." The cop paused, and Kinsley mouthed _fuck_ to herself again. "Ms. Estrada, would you be willing to come down and answer some questions?"

"Why? Is Kate in trouble? Is she hurt? Where is she? Is she in the hospital? What happened?" Kinsley knew the cop was unlikely to answer all her questions—hell, any of her questions—but she couldn't stop herself. She took two quick, pacing steps, shoulders hunched, and drew a deep breath. "Look, I just want to know if she's okay. Is she okay?"

The cop sighed into the phone. _Oh, hell_ , Kinsley thought, then he was talking. "No. No, she's not okay. We're working on getting her help, but we'd have a lot better idea of what to do if you could come talk to us. Can you do that, Ms. Estrada?"

"Which hospital?" Kinsley said, mentally calculating: how much time to convince Cheryl to let her leave, how much time to get across town.

"South Station."

Kinsley looked at her phone, then put it back to her ear. "Excuse me?"

"South Station. On Arch Street." The police station.

"Fuck," Kinsley whispered.

\---

The desk sergeant gave her shit over her ID. Kinsley rolled her eyes and waited it out, cool and calm on the outside, heart fluttering underneath, because the fear was always there when she had to use her ID, but it was especially bad at times like this, when maybe there wouldn't be a problem and maybe there would, maybe the cops would decide she had to be searched and insist on assigning a _guy_ to do it, never mind how calmly she repeated that she was a woman, she would prefer a female officer patting her down, hello civil rights. But Ryl arrived at the desk before they could get into the "you show me yours, I'll show you mine" portion of her usual police harassment, and he turned out to be a white dude with a crew cut and a death glare who shut down the desk guy in five seconds.

"Ms. Estrada," he said, and maybe he leaned a little heavier on the _ms._ and maybe he didn't, but Kinsley got her ID back and felt only a little victimized as they moved into the police part of the police station. "Thank you for coming."

"Yeah, sure, where's Kate?" Kinsley asked, keeping a hand on her purse. Ryl led her to a desk with a chair beside it—not unlike Cheryl's office, except bigger and with workplace-safety posters about drugs instead of eagles—and gestured for her to sit. She dropped into the chair with a disapproving thump.

"Ms. Sullivan is in a holding cell right now," Ryl said. He rubbed his hand from the front of his crew cut to the back, a gesture that seemed like it was tired or buying time or both. He put his hand down and sighed. "There was an incident at the university. She's very upset, but we're having trouble figuring out why. Her supervisor said she missed two days of work before today." He had a nice pair of hazel eyes that he turned on her. "Can you think of anything that's happened recently to upset Ms. Sullivan? Any time she seemed scared or angry?"

"What happened?" Kinsley asked, squeezing her purse in her lap. Ryl looked at her for a moment, a hint of disappointment showing in the crow's-feet around his eyes, before he decided that she wasn't going to be redirected.

"She started screaming in the bathroom," he said. "When campus security was called, she gouged out the responding officer's eye. Popped it right out of the socket." Ryl tilted his head forward, frowning. "Does Kate have martial arts training? A military background?"

"She _what?_ No," Kinsley said, and took a moment to not throw up. _Eye gouging?_ She shook her head violently, half-hoping the image in her head would fly out. "No, she—she's a runner, she goes running, Jesus, that isn't—are you sure it's Kate?" she asked, suddenly hopeful. "Maybe—"

She cut herself off when she saw Ryl's expression and put her knuckle to her mouth. Screaming. Eye gouging. What the _hell_ had happened?

"We're not sure," Ryl said. _Whoops._ Guess she'd said the last question out loud. "The campus officer is in the hospital right now. They don't think there'll be permanent damage to the eye, but they're making sure he doesn't have a scratched cornea or nerve damage. We haven't had a chance to talk to him."

"Jesus," Kinsley muttered.

Ryl leaned in with a distinct air of _I've answered your questions, now you answer mine._ "Ms. Estrada, right now, our main concern is making sure that Kate is okay. If someone or something upset her, we'd like to figure out what that is. If she's sick, then we'd like to get her treatment. We're not interested in punishing her or blaming her, we just want her to be safe and healthy. So if there's anything you can tell us about what's going on in her life that would help us figure out what she needs, I'd be very grateful, and I'm sure she would be, too."

Kinsley bit her lip. He was saying the right stuff, and he didn't _sound_ like he was just saying it. Which didn't mean he wouldn't turn around and twist anything she said later; in Kinsley's experience, the best liars in the world were cops and abusive men, because they believed their own bullshit. She shifted to make sure the microphone on her cell phone was pointed in his direction, then took a deep breath.

"She was in New York this week. When all the alien shit went down." He waited, patient and unreacting, his face open. "She said she got evacuated to Jersey. She didn't get home until this afternoon."

Kinsley swallowed and stopped there. She didn't care how nice Ryl was being, she wasn't going to tell him that Kate had come home talking to herself and wearing clothes that weren't hers. He'd have to get her on a witness stand for that. The police officer waited a moment more, letting the silence stretch thin before he tilted his head.

"What was she like when she got home?"

"Tired," Kinsley said, and shrugged. "I made her some lunch, and she took a nap, then went to work."

"Did you ask her about New York?"

"Yeah. She said she evacuated to Jersey, and it took her a while to get home."

"That's all?"

"She was tired," Kinsley said, and tried to make her voice scornful instead of defensive. "She wanted a shower and a nap and some food." She arched an eyebrow at Ryl. "I don't interrogate my friends when they're tired."

Ryl knew she was holding back, so they went a few more rounds, Ryl asking her the same questions over and over again with slightly different phrasings. Kinsley slipped up once or twice, but otherwise held her ground: she didn't know anything about what had happened in New York, and there hadn't been anything out of the ordinary about Kate that couldn't be explained as the result of Kate being unexpectedly kept away from home. Ryl tried guilt-tripping her with the "we're just trying to help her" line again, but Kinsley decided on her own that she wasn't giving him shit until she saw Kate with her own two eyes. The cop figured it out after a few monosyllable answers.

"Fine," he sighed, and stood up. "You want to see her?"

"Yeah," Kinsley said, fumbling with her purse, and followed him through the office. When they reached the holding cells, the hair on the back of Kinsley's neck went up. "Is that . . ."

Ryl nodded. After a word to the desk cop, they walked down the aisle between the cells, following the sound of a low, animal whine. In the last cell, her back jammed into the corner, her arms covering her head, was Kate.

Kinsley took an instinctive step forward. Ryl held a hand out and shot a look at the white line painted on the floor, a foot and a half from the metal grating. Kinsley narrowed her eyes at him, then turned her attention back to the cell. "Katie?" she called out, trying to keep her voice low and soft. "It's me, Katie. It's Kinsley. You okay?"

The low, continuous whine cut off when Kinsley spoke. A beat of silence and stillness followed her question; then Kate lowered her arms and raised her head. Blood had dried under her nose; her eyes, when she turned her head toward Kinsley, were opened wide, and her pupils pinned and dilated irregularly.

"Kinsley?" she whispered.

Kinsley took a step forward, still clutching her purse. "Yeah, Katie. It's me. It's Kinsley. Are you okay? What—" She cut herself off before she could ask _what happened_.

Kate's hands curled into fists and she closed her eyes. "Are you real, Kinsley? Can you prove to me that you're real?"

Her heart skipped. She looked at Ryl, who was too polite to have an _I-told-you-so_ face, then back at Kate. "I'm pretty sure I'm real," she said. "Katie? I'm as real as you are."

Kate let out a choked, awful noise, and Kinsley tensed until she realized it was supposed to be a laugh. "That's not proof, K. That's not proof at all." She opened her eyes. Desperation showed in their red-rimmed depths. "Kinsley," she said, her words coming out slowly, as if they required great effort, "if you're not real, you should go. Please. Before he finds you. I—I can't take watching anyone else get hurt. Okay? If you're real, I think you're safe, but if you're not, then—" Her eyes darted to something on the ceiling behind Kinsley, and her face warped into an expression of fear and anger. She looked at Kinsley, then back at the ceiling. "K, go. Go, please. He'll hurt you and I can't watch him hurt you I can't I can't I can't—"

She buried her face in her knees and covered her head with her arms and the long, low whine started again. _Thoroughly_ creeped, Kinsley turned to look behind her—just in case—then turned to Ryl. His pursed mouth said, _anything you can give me, I'll take._

"What the hell?" she said.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Brief use of "cr**ple" as a term of derision (but Sigyn kinda reclaims it?), reference to social stigmatization of disability.

Wind rustled the curtains, filling the folds with a hiss of fabric against the stone floor and a soft snap like a belling sail. Pages turned under the wind's hand and paper hissed against shifting paper. Loki smelled oleander and metal shavings and opened his eyes.

Late-afternoon light filtered through the thinnest curtains; Loki squinted against the temporary pain settling into the back of his eyesockets and slid his arms back, levering himself up off his pillows. A sheet and a brocade coverlet slid down his bare chest. He traced a pink scar from a burn he remembered only secondhand, the new skin tingling and almost tender under his fingertips.

"I wouldn't have thought you were the bedside-waiting type," he said aloud.

"I'm not," Sigyn said, her voice coming through the open door. Loki searched for her, but the angle of his view into his library produced only a glimpse of moving shadows. He pushed himself back, until the pillows and the wall supported him as he sat. Dust motes floated through a crack of sunlight spilling between the curtains. The whole room smelled of dust, Loki realized; it covered his books and his furniture, the bedposts and the floor. Only the coverlet and the sheets were free of it, freshly washed, with the tight feeling of new-tucked cloth.

Sigyn came through the doorway, a book in her hands. His mouth twitched. She'd always envied his library. She turned a page without looking up. "Besides, I'd have to kick your brother out of the way, and he's about as easy to shift as a boulder."

At Loki's bedside, in the deepest shadow opposite the windows, Thor slumped in a chair, one massive hand sprawled across Loki's bed. Even in the dark, his hair shone like gold, his sleeping face turned away from Loki. Next to the chair, a small table held a jug and a plate of sweet rolls.

"He wouldn't leave your side, even to sleep. So I drugged him."

Loki looked sharply at Sigyn. She set the book she was carrying on Loki's table and placed her finger on a line, then raised her eyes to him.

"He'll rouse if he wants to." She paused, then tapped her finger against the wooden desk. _And he might remember what's said around him, so don't say anything stupid. If you can manage that._

His mouth twitched. Sigyn had never respected his role as prince. He'd always liked that about her; he'd liked it in Kate, too—

His breath caught.

"How long?" he asked, and his voice was steady. As steady as his heart was not.

"Two days," Sigyn said. "Most of a day in the Soulforge, with the healers, and a night and a day sleeping." Her green eyes were implacable. "You made a mess of yourself."

"I had assistance," he said, but his thoughts weren't on the words. Two days. He glanced at Thor again, and fury rose in him. Two days with the knowledge that there were still frost giants in the palace, and a usurper on Alfheim's throne, and Thor had chosen to spend them at his side, coddling Loki?

Sigyn moved. Loki's gaze went to her; she was watching him intently, as if he was a new animal she'd discovered. _Why is he still here?_ Loki tapped furiously onto the coverlet. _He should be hunting down the giants, he should be on Alfheim—_

"The Jotuns who were concealed among the palace servants have been found," she said. She glided closer, his book forgotten on the table. "Emissaries have travelled to Alfheim. According to King Bui, the Alfar have made peace with the Chitauri. The traitors responsible for allowing the enemy to enter Windkeep have been executed."

Loki stilled. A usurper sat on Alfheim's throne; a usurper with the Chitauri behind him. "What of Fridur?"

"Fridur has been declared an enemy of Alfheim," Sigyn said. "Her location is unknown. She may be a prisoner. She may be dead."

If the Alfar accepted Bui as their king, then Asgard risked war by opposing him—no matter if he was controlled by the Chitauri.

Sigyn reached the side of the bed. She put a hand on the headboard, drawing Loki's eye, and raised an eyebrow. Loki nodded and ran through scenarios in his head, Alfheim's forces against Asgard's, taking into account their losses against the Chitauri as well as the inevitability that the Alfar would not have revealed their warforces' full capabilities to Asgard. Sigyn accessed a command pad usually hidden by a fold of her skirts. She sank an inch or so, landing with a _clunk._ The waistband split open and she levered herself out of the grip of her creation with a grunt of relief, then slid onto the bed next to Loki, swinging her thin, immobile legs onto the coverlet.

From the moment she was old enough to express an opinion, Sigyn had resisted the attempts of her family—and the court at large—to invade her bodily autonomy. She had been born without the use of her legs; that, she had declared, was how she intended to stay. There would be no attempts to "fix" her. By the time Loki met her, she had already designed and built an assistive exoskeleton that allowed her to walk and run. She caught Loki staring at it during the court ceremony announcing their betrothal, and afterward, she had challenged him.

_"Do you think I'm a cripple?"_

_Loki blinked. "No," he said._

_"Because I am. And if you have a problem with that, you're going to have to go back to Asgard and explain how a prince of Asgard was beaten like a kitchen boy by a cripple."_

_She was fierce, her green eyes as sharp as knives, her red hair escaping from its braids into a frizzy corona. Loki started to smile._

_"Is this because I was staring?"_

_She didn't answer that, her brow coming together as she scowled suspiciously. Loki held his hands behind his back and tried not to grin._

_"I was staring because I wanted to figure out how it worked." He nodded at her knees. "The supports are so fine, they don't look like they should carry your weight. And the power system—how_ is _it powered? I assume it's powered?"_

_The creases on her forehead gradually smoothed. "They're not fine enough," she said eventually. "But I'm not allowed to use the forge. I have to wait for them every time I want to test a design with a new alloy." She made a face. "I'm perfectly capable of working with a smelter, but no one seems willing to accept that."_

_"Do you have your own workshop?" Loki asked. Sigyn rolled her eyes._

_"Of course."_

_"Can I see it?" he asked. She looked at him sharply._

_"If you're asking only because you're trying to get into my good graces, then no."_

_Loki grinned. "What if I'm asking because I want to get out of this boring court and play with something that could burn a hole in a table?"_

_Sigyn stared at him, startled, for a moment, before she narrowed her eyes at him._

_"Burn anything in my workshop, Asgardian, and I'll turn you into a rug."_

They had become allies, then friends: the marriage contract had been a useful excuse for both of them when their respective home courts seemed too confining. Under the guise of "strengthening their relationship," Loki and Sigyn had built prototypes in Sigyn's workshop and experimented with magic in Loki's lab; as long as they were seen kissing occasionally, their parents didn't question the rest of their activities. And kissing Sigyn had never been a hardship. She had been his first lover, and they had explored each other's bodies with the enthusiasm of scientists in a new land. There had even been a few years—when Loki was young and foolish and blind—that he thought he'd loved Sigyn.

Fortunately, Sigyn hadn't been so stupid. "Stop thinking with your balls," she'd told him, or something similarly blunt and to the point. He had sulked (privately; they kept up the ruse of the engagement) and snapped at her and eventually realized that Sigyn was right. Not so long after that, Sigyn had renounced her titles, and with them, the marriage contract. By then, Loki had understood what it was to feel confined by the terms of one's birth. Or supposed birth.

Loki closed his eyes and leaned back into his pillows. "You ought to make me into a rug, Sigyn."

He felt her turn toward him. A cool finger traced one of the burns on his chest. He made himself still as Sigyn's hand wandered over his chest, measuring, assessing. Eventually she took her hand back and settled it in her lap.

"Too many flaws," she said. "You'd come apart."

_Too many flaws._ The words resonated in him like a struck glass. Was that he was? Flawed? Destined from the moment of his making to fail at exactly the wrong moments, in exactly the wrong ways? To crack and warp under the pressure of being prince, to shear free when the weight of his heritage was revealed? He opened his eyes, but didn't look at Sigyn.

"I should have joined you."

"To what? Eat my rations and fart into the air recycler?"

He didn't smile, and Sigyn's hand crept to his wrist. Her fingers circled his wrist lightly, like she was holding a bird.

"You still had a family. Responsibilities you wouldn't walk away from." She leaned into his shoulder. "Thor needed you."

"And that turned out so well for both of us," Loki said. He turned his head to look at Sigyn from the corner of his eye. She looked back, her eyes empty of any scrap of pity: there was only challenge in her green eyes. "If you'd married me, this would never have happened," he said lightly.

Sigyn snorted. "You're right. I would have murdered you in your sleep two weeks into our marriage, you insufferable prick," she said. Loki smiled, then looked down at their hands. He turned his palm up, and Sigyn laced her fingers with his. Her hands were as large as his, and strong, scarred from years of working with tools and metal and electricity. Not at all like Kate's: small and dark and new.

_A dark room and two shapes, one large, one small. "Do you love her, Loki?"_

Thor shifted and grumbled. Sigyn let go of Loki's hand and slid across the bed, then into the skirt. She re-engaged the microrepulsors with a hum, and by the time Thor had straightened and begun to blink sleepily, she was floating again, fully mobile.

"You're awake," Thor said. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand in a gesture that was oddly childish. "How do you feel?"

"More alert than you," Loki said, raising an eyebrow. Thor shot him an irritated glance, then looked at the windows, and finally at Sigyn.

"I think that was not only wine," he said, and Loki nearly laughed at the affront in Thor's voice.

"I cannot help if your head for drink is less than it once was, your highness," Sigyn said, then glided to Loki's desk and picked up the book she'd carried in earlier. Thor frowned at her unconcerned profile.

Loki and Sigyn conspiring, Thor confused and petulant at the prospect of trickery: it felt comfortably familiar. As if the year in Thanos's grip had never happened; as if Loki had never fallen, never betrayed Asgard. Loki watched Thor stretch and grimace, and he let himself imagine—just for a moment—that this was the aftermath of an ambitious prank.

"Loki, I would not hurry you, but there are matters of import to discuss," Thor said. Loki straightened on the bed and gave Thor his best unconcerned smile.

"Such as our ally falling under the sway of Thanos? Certainly. As an outlaw only recently freed from the influence of the same creature, I will be delighted to help in any way I can."

Thor, as he sometimes did, ignored the bite of sarcasm in Loki's words and leaned in, his eyes brightening. "Indeed, Loki—as an outlaw."

Sigyn dropped the book she was holding. Both Thor and Loki turned at the sound to find her leaning across the desk. "You talk of sending Loki after Fridur while he is still weak?" she demanded. "That's idiocy, Thor—if he fails, the Alfar will not care if Loki has been outlawed or not. All they will care about is that a prince of Asgard attempted to aid a traitor!"

"Loki is no longer of Asgard; it was declared in open court, for all to hear. If he goes to Fridur's aid, it is not as an agent of Asgard's interests, but of his own, repaying the debt he owes her."

"That tissue of half-truths might hold if both parties agreed, but Bui is in Thanos's thrall—and Thanos wishes to war with Asgard," Sigyn said.

"It will not _need_ to hold if Fridur can be restored to the throne," Thor said.

"If! No small question, Odinson—since you propose to send Loki alone into a hostile kingdom, to locate a woman who may or may not even be alive."

"Not alone—"

Loki listened to them argue with half his attention, his thoughts tugged back to Kate. _You're not the only one who dreams of me, Loki._ Thanos. Thanos had spoken to him. Used his memories—his _construction_ —of Kate to weaken him.

The details were flowing back: the dream version of this room, the dream version of Kate. One last torture before the Titan lost his hold on Loki's mind.

Kate over him, smiling, confident. Kate curled against him, her skin smooth and warm against his. Kate with tears running down her face.

Kate's neck snapping.

"And how can you be so certain that Fridur will welcome Asgard's help? This _is_ , after all, Loki's fault—"

"Loki is not to blame—"

"—or that Alfheim will accept her as queen, rather than an Asgardian puppet? _Will_ she be—"

"Fridur is a friend!"

Loki curled his fingers into the coverlet. One last torture. One last illusion, calculated to leave him as vulnerable as possible before drawing him in.

Except Kate had seen him. She'd admitted it. _You told me how to survive on Asgard. You told me I was lying to myself. That I was you._

Loki felt suddenly distant from his body. _Lying to myself_. No. She hadn't seen him. She'd seen _Thanos_. Or the Thanos version of him—like the version of Kate that Thanos had killed in front of him.

Thanos was in Kate's head. _Had been_ in Kate's head, perhaps since the moment they switched bodies.

"Fridur is _your_ friend, perhaps, but that was before her entire family was wiped out—"

"Fridur would not be ruled by Asgard—she is too strong for that, and her people know it—"

"The people are idiots. _All_ people are idiots."

"Besides, what does this benefit Loki? He is an outlaw; none can compel him, certainly not Odin."

Thor sounded insulted. "Loki is my brother—"

" _No, he's not_." Sigyn's voice was a whipcrack, temporarily distracting Loki. He'd been so deep in his thoughts that he'd missed Thor rising from his seat and Sigyn coming around the desk. "Loki is an outlaw. No law protects him; no law compels him. He may leave at any moment and he _can_ leave at any moment, with me."

His ex-fiancée glared at Thor as if she was ready to start a fistfight. The little silver knife she kept in her sleeve wasn't visible in her hand; she wasn't _really_ angry, then, just annoyed. Thor, on the other hand . . .

Thunder rumbled outside and the skies dimmed with clouds. Wind whipped the curtains. "Loki is my brother. Say otherwise again, and I will bar you from these grounds," Thor said, his voice low and deadly.

"Sigyn has a point," Loki said. Both of them turned toward him, Sigyn smug, Thor scowling; Loki forced his expression to reflect only indifferent interest. The old mask fit uneasily over his thoughts. "What does Odin offer me for my service . . . brother?"

Thor barely moved, but Loki knew his brother: that tiny drop of his shoulders signaled guilt. Sigyn glanced from Thor to Loki, her eyes narrowing. Loki smiled slightly. _Oh, Thor._

"Odin knows nothing of this," Loki said. He tilted his head. "My dear brother. You surprise me."

Thor's brilliant blue eyes turned full-force on Loki as he straightened, and there was something lonely in his posture—as if he'd learned to stand with no one at his side. "How do I surprise you, Loki?" he asked, his deep voice lowering to something almost soft. "That I would oppose Father to protect you? Or that I would suggest a course of misdirection and subterfuge rather than outright conflict?"

Loki's heart skipped a beat. Perhaps it was that he was alone in his mind for the first time since falling from the Bifrost; perhaps it was seeing Thor in a moment when they weren't at each other's throats; perhaps it was simply that worrying about Kate had distracted him from the jealousy and anger that had filled his thoughts for last few decades whenever he was in Thor's presence; whatever the reason, a haze fell from Loki's eyes, and he saw Thor. Not the boy he had grown up with, not the laughing, arrogant princeling he had schemed to keep from the throne, but the man Thor had become.

A man who could be king.

"I learned much when I was banished to Earth," Thor said, then hesitated. His voice lowered to something little more than a whisper. "I learned more when I returned to an Asgard without you. An Asgard I loved, but knew less than I thought; to responsibilities and duties that fell heavier without you to share them. Responsibilities and duties I never knew you'd shared."

Loki's hands ached from clenching the coverlet. _No_ , he wanted to say, _stop it, stop it right now,_ but his jaw was locked tight, his silver tongue silent. Thor's blue eyes held a world of pain and pleading, and Loki wanted to spit in them.

"Brother, you were right. I should not have been king. I was unready. I only wish I could have been a better man before—a man who could have listened, who could have learned—"

"Stop," Loki said, his heart thundering in his chest, pulse roaring in his ears. "Just _stop._ "

His hands were shaking. Words rose to his tongue: _What changed your mind, Thor? The destruction of Puente Antigua? Your utter failure to stop me from unleashing the Chitauri on Midgard? Your inability to see through even the simplest of my tricks? When you say "unready," do you mean blind? Violent? Prideful? Ignorant?_

Thor thought he was being humble. _He was tearing Loki apart._

Thor took a step forward, his eyes wide and worried, and stopped when Loki flinched. "Brother, what was done to you—what you did on Midgard—none of it would have happened if I would have listened to you. If you hadn't felt that the only way to protect Asgard was to stop my coronation—"

" _No,_ " Loki said, then grimaced and swallowed around the pain in his throat. "No, you don't take responsibility for that. You don't _get_ to take that away from me, Thor." He met Thor's eyes, and whatever his brother saw in them was enough to make him sway on his feet, his pretty face going from self-righteous pain to shock. "I chose my path," Loki said, his voice low and savage. "I chose it with anger and jealousy and fear in my heart. I sent men to their deaths and _their blood is on my hands_." He paused, adrenaline racing quicksilver-fast through his weakened limbs. "My actions were not wanton. They were deliberate. They were _chosen_. I had my reasons, but that does not change the fact that I was _responsible_ , and you don't get to take that away. That's my burden, Thor. _Mine._ "

Comprehension dawned in Thor's eyes, and Loki wondered what it was that Thor finally understood. That his admission had raked Loki's heart? That claiming responsibility for Loki's actions stole Loki's agency, turned him into a weakling, a puppet? That hearing this—this humility, this vulnerability, this _gods-damned worthiness_ —out of Thor's mouth only made Loki realize how little Thanos had had to change him to make him into a monster?

To make his true nature known.

Loki looked down at his hands, clenched tight around the coverlet. He forced them to flatten, shaking.

"I cannot undo what I have done. I cannot bring back the dead." He lifted his eyes to Thor, who was holding his breath. "But I won't have more blood on my hands."

Hope lit Thor's eyes. "You'll go to Alfheim."

Loki nodded once, straining to hold back the urge to slap that sweet expression from Thor's face. "I'll go. But there's someone I have to see first. On Midgard."

Thor blinked, confused. Sigyn regarded Loki suspiciously, disapproval in every line of her body. Loki struggled to set aside his anger and despair. _Now, he understands,_ Loki thought, a bitter laugh creeping up his throat. _Now, he wants to apologize. Now he wants to take responsibility. Now that I've destroyed everything._

He looked down at his hands and forced his thoughts away from Thor, away from the past. Later, he would weep, and rage, and curse his not-brother's poisonous sympathy.

Now, only one thing was important:

_He'd lied to Thanos._


	41. Chapter 41

"Fuck," Kinsley muttered.

_You've reached the voicemail of the greatest marksman in the world. If you're calling me for help, you're probably screwed, but leave a message anyway. It's not like I can make things worse. Most of the time._

Beep. "Come _on_ , archer," Kinsley snarled. "Answer your fucking phone already." She left the date and the time and hung up, then kicked a trash can. The smokers clustered around the concrete picnic tables looked in her direction, then away.

Kinsley jammed her phone into her purse alongside the business card she'd lifted out of Kate's bag when Officer Ryl wasn't looking. She'd memorized the number after five hours of calling once an hour, on the hour. _So much for being worried that I'd end up with SHIELD all over me,_ she thought, her mouth twisting sourly. She'd spent half her shift earlier today talking herself into calling, and the other half talking herself out of calling; but as it had turned out, it probably didn't matter if she called or not. The archer wasn't coming. And what the fuck was he going to do if he came, anyway? It wasn't like there was anything he could shoot.

Kinsley felt her jaw start to tremble and she clamped down on that motherfucker _hard._ "You're not fucking crying," she muttered to herself, then fumbled in her purse for a tissue. Someone had to keep her shit together for Kate, and it wasn't going to be Kate's mom.

Kinsley's teeth ached. She knew Kate's mom had her reasons for flipping out—Kate had explained about her mom's high standards for her, and how she kept pushing Kate to get another degree, and how any time Kate broke the rules even a little it was like _whoop whoop hit the meltdown button_ —but right now? Right now was not the time to throw a hissy about Kate getting arrested.

Kinsley shifted her purse on her shoulder and started walking toward the hospital doors. Fortunately for Kinsley, the nurses liked her a lot better than Kate's mom. This might have had something to do with the gourmet cupcakes that Cheryl had let her buy from the restaurant at day-old prices, or possibly it was just that Kinsley never screamed at them or at Kate. Bribery or favoritism, Kinsley didn't care; the end result was that she was reasonably certain no one would try to chase her out of Kate's room tonight.

"Ms. Estrada!"

Kinsley stopped, but didn't turn around. "Officer Ryl," she said, and tried to think of something cutting. He caught up to her before she could come up with anything. _Off your game, Kinsley,_ she told herself, then looked up at the tall cop. He was wearing his uniform, and he smelled like aftershave.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Oh, what am I, chopped liver? Hey, nice to see you, too, Officer Old Spice. I'm great, thanks for asking, just going in to hang out with my friend while she goes blind and insane," Kinsley said, and immediately flushed. _Jesus fuck, Kinsley. Control your mouth._

Ryl went bright pink, then pale. He swallowed, his Adam's apple moving beneath his thick, tanned neck. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me," he said. "How are you doing, Ms. Estrada?"

He had the worst face for making her feel guilty. The _worst._ She looked away from it resolutely. "I told you, it's Kinsley," she said.

"Kinsley," he repeated, and his voice was nice, so fucking nice, and _dammit_ she wished it was fake nice, because that would be easier to deal with. "Are you okay, Kinsley?"

Her jaw started trembling again. Traitor.

"She's going blind," Kinsley said, her whole body tense with the effort of keeping her voice steady. "Hypertensive retinopathy. It's a side effect. It means—"

"The high blood pressure is affecting her retina," Ryl said, his voice way too gentle. "It's temporary, Kinsley. Once they bring her blood pressure down—"

Kinsley turned to him. "You say that like it's gonna happen."

Ryl opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. "You're right," he said. "I can't be sure."

She shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking. "Quit de-escalating me."

He didn't move for a second, surprised, then caught up with her in a few long strides. "I wasn't trying to—"

"I get it. Talking down the crazy. Peaceful conflict resolution. Do they—"

Ryl caught her shoulder. " _Kinsley_ ," he said, and let go of her when she whirled to face him. He held up his open hands, and if Kinsley had been in a better mood, she would have laughed at that, a white cop holding up his hands for her like her little brown self was the threat. "I'm not here for the job."

She narrowed her eyes at him. That didn't even make sense. He was in uniform (which he filled out very nicely, thank you, not that that was one of her kinks or anything) and he was being police-officer polite and—

"I'm on break," he said. Big brown puppy eyes tried to convince her. "I'm not here to ask questions. I just . . . wanted to check up on her. And you," he added.

Fuck. Fucking puppy eyes. Fucking cop being fucking nice when he didn't fucking have to be—

She wrapped her arms around herself and clenched her teeth and smashed her lips together but that did fuckall to stop the tears. Ryl fumbled through his pockets and came up with a handkerchief—an actual, old-school handkerchief—that she waved off in favor of tissues she dug out of her purse.

After she wiped and honked a few times, Ryl ducked his head and asked, "Are you okay, Kinsley?"

"The fuck do you think?" she muttered, and hiccupped. Ryl shouldn't have smiled at that, but he did: a nice little side-smile that turned his cop-face into a person-face, the kind of face she could picture in a bookstore or a coffee shop or behind the neck of a craft beer.

"Guess not," he said. The smile slid off his face, and she missed it. "Can I do anything?"

"What, like magically make her better?" She snorted. "Didn't know you picked up a medical degree since I last saw you, Ryl."

"Ryan," he said. He fussed with the pocket he'd stowed his handkerchief in, poking at it with his thumb while he didn't quite meet her eyes. "My name's Ryan."

 " _Ryan_ ," she said, and rolled her eyes. She turned away and started walking toward the hospital doors again, but slower. Ryl— _Ryan_ , god, what a dumb name—walked beside her, taking tiny strides to keep from totally outpacing her.

"They haven't figured out . . ."

She shook her head when his voice trailed off. "No. It's not drugs. It's not a head injury. It's not cancer, or medication, or infection." She looked at her feet, then up at the doors, carefully not looking at Ryl's sympathetic face. "It's New York. Whatever it is that's killing her . . . it happened in New York."

"Maybe," Ryl said. She stopped and turned to look at him. His cop-face was good, but not that good. She folded her arms.

"Spill."

He looked at her, then at the concrete façade of the hospital, then back at her. "It might not have been New York."

Kinsley stepped into Ryl's personal space and got up on her toes, which still put her several inches from Ryl's face. "Talk or I'll knee you in the balls," she said. He frowned and opened his mouth. She stabbed a finger into his chest. "I have six thousand followers on Twitter and _all_ of them will be on the Albany police department's case if you arrest me, so quit dancing around it." She rocked back onto her heels, wrapping her arms around herself, and let out the fear she'd been trying to hold back. "Besides. She's gonna be dead in a week. Or brain-dead. You're not gonna get the chance to take her to court." Her chin was trembling now, tears busting loose down her face. She sniffed hard, trying to keep the snot from pouring out of her nose, and swallowed around the rock in her throat. "Just say it. Whatever it is you found out."

Ryl's mouth fell open while Kinsley was talking, his expression going from surprise to shock to something like horror. He started to say something, bit his lip, then rolled his jaw like he had to change its position to change what he meant to say. "She flew to Sweden," he said finally.

Kinsley stared at him. "What the fuck?"

"Something happened to the records at Interpol," he said, his voice low. His eyes flicked away in a quick check of their surroundings, then back to Kinsley. "But she was there. Flew out the day after the attacks. Flew back about three days ago, middle of the night. Less than twenty-four hours before . . ." He tilted his head in the direction of the university.

"That makes no fucking sense," Kinsley said, because it didn't. Ryl shrugged. His eyes had gone soft.

"You wanted to know," he said. "And like you said."

Kinsley flinched, because she shouldn't have said that aloud, because now it was in her head, _dead in a week_ , not like the thought hadn't already been there but now it was floating around in her own voice and she felt like a traitor, like it was giving up on Kate to say it, _dead in a week_ —

Ryl's hand was firm on her elbow as he steered her to a bench. She sobbed through all of her tissues, then Ryl's handkerchief, too. He sat next to her, not trying to say anything, while the ugly sobbing turned into hiccupy sobbing turned into sniffling.

"She's my friend," Kinsley said, her voice thick with mucus and pain. "I've never—none of my friends have died."

"I know," Ryl said. He stayed with her until she was ready to go in, through the rest of his break, not talking, not moving. He walked her to the door before she left, waiting outside the glass until she was through security.

_He was okay_ , Kinsley thought. _He was okay, for a cop_.

\---

_How's Kate doing?_

 

_Really bad._

 

_Aw, baby._

_Do you want me to come up?_

 

_No, it's okay, mom. I just_

_I might come home for a while_

_if that's okay?_

 

_You come home whenever you want sweetheart. I love you and I'm so proud of you for looking out for Kate._

 

_thanks mom_

_i gotta go it's lights out i love you_

 

_I love you too_

\---

The numbers glowed on her screen. Kinsley stared at the CALL button underneath them for a long time before she pressed it.

_You've reached the voicemail of the greatest—_

She took the phone from her ear and thumbed the END button, then stared at the call log. _Outgoing. Outgoing. Outgoing._

"Fuck you, archer," she said under her breath, and took the arrow card out of her purse. She ripped it in half, and in half again. "Fuck you, and fuck the Avengers, and fuck SHIELD, and fuck you, too, Kate," she said, her voice going wobbly but no less angry as she lifted her gaze to the figure in the hospital bed, turned awkwardly on her side, one hand strapped to the rail, another over her head. Oxygen hissed into the tube in her nose, while flat-panel monitors charted the rabbit-fast beats of her heart, her blood-pressure numbers red. They couldn't keep them green any more. Not for more than a few minutes.

"Fuck you for not trusting me enough to tell me the truth," Kinsley whispered.

Kate didn't move, just kept breathing those too-fast-to-be-sleeping breaths through her cracked lips, closed eyelids hiding blood-bloomed eyes. The lights were down low enough that it was hard to see the rainbow of bruises on her arms. It was the coumadin, the nurses had explained, or maybe it was one of the other drugs they'd mentioned, the nitropress or the propranolol or the god-knows-how-many drugs they'd tried on her, trying to keep her heart from racing itself to death. "It's a stress response," they had said, her body flooded with adrenaline and cortisol that would have helped keep her alive in a fight, except it was out of control—like Kate had started running for her life in the library and never stopped.

She'd been lucid for a while yesterday. Couldn't remember anything about the library, or New York, but she'd been lucid. That's when they found out about the blind spot. Kate had turned her head and panicked, rattling the restraints. "Kinsley?" she had said. "Where'd you go? Kinsley?"

The blood in her eye had showed up a little later. Just a spot at first, then it had bloomed larger and larger. When Kinsley had checked on her this morning, before she went to work, there had been a new monitor and a new tube coming out of the back of Kate's head, like she was a cyborg or something. The nurses had said _intracranial pressure_ and started acting really nice to Kinsley and that was when she knew. Not intellectually, because she wasn't ready to go there, fuck no, but in her gut. In the animal instinct that could tell when it was time to find a dark quiet place.

"Was it New York?" Kinsley asked her. They'd turned her on her side because she had been vomiting for a while, something that Kinsley hadn't been around for, thank god. Kate had fought them, too, which was why her hands were velcroed to the bed.

"Or was it Stockholm?" she asked. Kinsley had googled everything she could possibly imagine Kate wanting in Stockholm, searched through every English-language news site she could find for something that could have left Kate this way.

Kate didn't answer.

She hadn't said anything since yesterday.

Kinsley watched her breathe and wondered, for the dozenth time, if it would have made a difference if she'd said something. To Ryl. To Pepper Potts and the archer when they'd showed up at her apartment. Maybe SHIELD could have figured out what was wrong. Maybe Ryl would have gotten her to the hospital faster, gotten her into treatment. Maybe. Maybe not. But Kinsley knew one thing for sure.

Kate wouldn't have gone to New York if Kinsley hadn't encouraged her.

_Do some research. Maybe you'll figure it out._

All she had to do was say, "Maybe you should wait a day." All she had to do was say, "Why don't you get a later train?"

Kinsley knew it wasn't her fault that Kate was dying.

That didn't change the fact that if Kinsley had acted differently, neither of them would be here.

There was an armchair in the corner, but it was on the wrong side of the room, the side Kate was facing away from. So Kinsley was sitting in a barely-padded visitor chair with her feet propped on the seat of another chair, her arms wrapped around her knees, phone and torn business card in her hand.

If she'd just put her fucking shoes on.

Kate made a face in her sleep and started to twitch. Kinsley launched herself out of the chair she'd been sitting in and dragged the chair she had been using as a footstool to the side of the bed. "Hey, hey, hey," she whispered as Kate shook her head, her lips drawing back from her teeth in a grimace of fear or disgust. "None of that, okay? Nobody's getting hurt. Nobody's getting tortured. Everybody's okay, Kate. I'm okay. Loki's okay. Fritter's okay. We're all okay. We're all safe."

Some of the anxiety left Kate's face. The nurses had a theory that when Kate hallucinated, she saw people she knew being hurt, although the only name she'd said that was familiar was Kinsley's. "Loki" and "Fritter" were the other two she repeated the most. If someone told her that everyone was okay, sometimes she calmed down.

"Shh," Kinsley said, keeping her voice low. "Everyone's okay. Everyone's okay."

The tension ebbed out of Kate's face. Kinsley put an elbow on the bed and leaned her head into her hand.

This was Kate's mom's job, Kinsley thought. She was the one who should have been sitting here, watching over Kate, talking her out of her nightmares and breathing in the sickbed smell of piss and stale sheets and vomit and sweat. But Kate's mom couldn't handle this, for reasons that not even a full bottle of moscato could pull out of Kate, so it fell to Kinsley.

Kinsley, who was too goddamn young to be sitting at her friend's deathbed.

Kinsley, who should have put on her fucking _shoes._

Kinsley watched Kate breathe, and wondered how much longer she had.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Briefly implied suicidal thought.

Clint Barton did not like hospitals. Probably because he spent so much time in them. It wasn't so much that he hated getting patched up—or poked, prodded, tested, and asked dumb questions—as much as the visits he made when he wasn't the one getting fixed up. Working for an organization like SHIELD meant most of his friends were also his colleagues. And that meant that at least a quarter of all the birthday celebrations Clint attended were at someone's bedside, consciousness optional. It didn't matter how high your clearance was or how many field ops you'd survived—seeing your friends hurt sucked.

Of course, it sucked _infinity times more_ when you were the one who hurt them.

Clint perched on his stolen chair, feet on the seat, ass balanced on the backrest, on the roof of the Albany Medical Center's psych building. It was far from an ideal location—the main medical building was significantly taller—but it was good enough for now. Better than being inside, where all he'd see was the kid who'd been dumb enough to follow Loki _willingly_.

He'd wondered—along with the rest of the Avengers—if she wasn't a little supervillain-in-training, or a wannabe, at least. Maybe she'd gotten pushed around, jumped at the chance to push back. Maybe she was a Quisling: ran the odds of Loki succeeding, figured she wanted in on the winning side. Clint wouldn't have liked her much, if that had been why she'd helped him, but he would have understood. He'd seen it plenty of times: people getting in over their heads, following someone who promised them power. Most of them had ended up with an arrow through the heart.

Then they'd dug up CCTV footage of her and Loki meeting. A bank camera, watching from the wrong angle, really, but it was enough to see the important stuff: Chitauri coming down the street, debris trapping one of them along with a civilian, Kate coming into frame with a Chitauri spear to try to protect the guy who'd fallen. She would have been dead in a few more seconds—she wasn't Nat, didn't have the intuitive weapons-knowledge she needed to figure out how to fire the thing—if Loki hadn't showed up. Seeing that footage made Clint stop thinking of her as a possible hostile. A definite idiot, but no longer a possible hostile.

Which only made this deathwatch harder.

The roof smelled like tar and coolant and sneaked cigarettes, but the breeze that ruffled his hair was fresher, scented by the trees that surrounded the building. Clint stretched his hands and wrists, feeling familiar calluses, and wondered what it had been like, being Loki. Wondered if trading bodies had let her access Loki's memories.

He'd volunteered to keep an eye on her in the Tower because he'd hoped to talk to her when she woke up. He'd wanted to ask her how Loki had known, just looking at him, that Clint had enough about SHIELD and the Avengers in his head to fuck everyone over. _Had_ he known? Or had it just been that bitch luck screwing him again, putting him in the wrong assignment at the wrong time? Nat said it was coincidence; Loki had come out of the Tesseract portal hurting and hungry for information, and any one of the agents in that room could have ended up as his flying monkey. Clint mostly agreed, but it was the part of him that didn't that kept him up at night. The part of him that wondered if some other clown who'd picked up some mind tricks was going to look at Clint, see an easy mark, and do it again. Turn him inside out again. Make him kill his friends again. If it was possible, he wanted to know, so he could make sure it never happened. In the only way he could make sure.

Clint caught himself rubbing the cold spot on his chest and made himself drop his hand. SHIELD's med staff had checked; the quarter-sized patch of skin over his sternum wasn't any different from the rest of his skin. Full sensory input, no cancer, no weirdness—except that it was cold. Always. As if when Loki had put the spear against Clint's heart, he'd left a mark on the outside as well as the inside.

The wind picked up, gusting hard enough to rock the chair under him. Clint balanced and frowned, checking the sky. Clouds were rolling in hard and fast. Clouds that hadn't been in the weather forecast. Clouds that were starting to rotate around a center that was very nearly directly overhead.

He grabbed his bow case and ran for the roof access door, the chair clanging and scraping across the roof behind him. He yanked open the door and jumped a flight of stairs, knees crackling, then shouldered onto the top floor and sprinted down the hall. In the very middle of the building, the night receptionist looked up, startled.

He flashed his SHIELD badge. "Get on the public address," he said. "Tell people to get away from the windows, get down to the basement if they can or an interior hallway if they can't. There's a storm blowing in, and there's rotation in the clouds."

"But we're not supposed to get any rain—" the receptionist said, blue eyes confused, and Clint leaned over the counter and into the man's face.

"Get on the PA, _now,_ " he snarled.

Lightning _cracked_ outside, shaking the building and making the lights flicker. The receptionist's mouth dropped open but—spurred by the lightning or the panic on Clint's face—he reached for his phone and stabbed the speaker button. Clint was running for the stairs before the man could begin speaking.

_"All hospital employees and patients—this is an emergency announcement. A strong storm has been spotted in our area and everyone should take cover immediately—"_

Clint shouldered through a fire door and took the metal stairs at a run, his steps ringing. He was out the door and on Kate's floor before the receptionist finished his announcement and he was still— _still_ —almost too late. He dropped the bow case and pulled the Glock from the holster under his jacket.

"Stop right the fuck there, Loki."


	43. Chapter 43

_BANG!_

_CRASH!_

"Motherfucker!"

Kinsley flailed on the floor for a second until her hands were under her and she was sitting up, her legs tangled with the turned-over chair. Thunder rumbled through the room, louder than the trains in the cheapass apartment by the tracks that she had rented for half a semester as a sophomore. She checked the lights, then Kate's monitors, then craned her neck toward the bed.

"Kate? You okay?"

Kate didn't say anything. "Fuck," Kinsley said under her breath. She put a hand to her chest and actually felt her heart whacking against the inside of her ribs. _Jesus_ , that had been loud.

She untangled her feet and got up, one hand on the bed for support. The shades were drawn on the windows, so she circled the end of the bed and fiddled with the mechanism in the windowframe until the shade sandwiched between the layers of glass rolled up. Outside, there was no sign of rain, but wind was lashing the treetops and the orange streetlights were swaying, sending every shadow into sinister motion.

 _Well, that's not ominous as fuck,_ Kinsley thought. She rubbed her face, trying to wake the rest of the way up, and grimaced when she felt a wet spot on her cheek. She was using the back of her hand to rub off her sleep-drool when speakers in the hall crackled to life.

" _All hospital employees and patients—this is an emergency announcement. A strong storm has been spotted in our area and everyone should take cover immediately. Proceed to an interior hallway or bathroom as soon as possible and stay away from the windows—"_

Kinsley looked at the window, then at Kate. Her heart started pounding again. _Fuck. FUCK._ She took a step toward the bed, then hesitated. She could get Kate's hands out of the Velcro cuffs, and she could probably drag Kate and her IV out to the hall, but what about the pressure monitor in the back of her head? She was pretty sure that wasn't something she wanted to mess with.

Kinsley looked at the windows again. Shit. _Shit._ Make a decision, Kinsley.

She went for the door, intending to yell down the hall until someone came, but when she opened the door, she found someone was already there. _Three_ someones, in fact: the archer, Frost, and the big blond dude from the battle of New York. And the archer had his gun out.

"Go back inside and close the door," he ordered, not taking his eyes off Frost. "Thor. Pretty sure we agreed you'd keep your little brother away from Earth for the next millennium."

"This is not your business, Barton. Do not interfere," Frost said. Tall as fuck, pale as fuck, looking like 100% Grade-A Badass and glaring at the archer with crazy eyes: yeah, okay, she got why Kate let herself be led by the clit.

"Brother Hawkeye, we come with good intentions," tall, blond, and hunky said. "Kate Sullivan may be in grave danger—"

"Try 'dying,'" Kinsley said, and immediately regretted opening her big mouth when both of the giant hotties looked at her: blondie with brows creased in worry, Frost with even crazier crazy eyes. Frost started to move toward the door.

 _BANG!_ Drywall exploded next to the door frame. Kinsley shrieked and recoiled backward; Frost turned, snarling, in the archer's direction; big'n'blond hefted a giant-ass hammer, and the air went burny with ozone.

"Make another move, and we'll find out how well gods survive head shots," the archer said, ignoring the electricity in the air. Kinsley felt her hair standing up.

"I spared your life once, Barton—" Frost said, and if Kinsley hadn't been looking at the archer right then, she wouldn't have noticed the way his eyes widened and the tendons stood out on his arms.

"Hey! So!" Kinsley said loudly, because she was pretty sure that if she didn't jump in, someone was going to get shot. Which would be traumatizing and unnecessary. "This has been a great dick-measuring contest, and I'm sure you're all hung like heroes, but can we please _stop with the bullcrap_ and act like fucking adults?" Kinsley' grip on the doorframe was all that kept her from fleeing into Kate's room to collapse in a shivering pile as _all three_ badasses in the hall turned to look at her. "'Cause I don't know if you noticed, but you're in the middle of a _hospital_ , which is, you know, kind of a terrible place to fight, okay? And Kate has already been fucked up enough," Kinsley finished, her voice strengthening on the last words. She glared at the archer, and blondie, and Frost—Frost hardest, because he was sneering and also because Kinsley was pretty sure this was all his fault. "Settle your shit outside, or quit waving your dicks and do something useful."

"I will not be lectured at by a—" Frost's snarl was cut off by a big blond-haired arm that looped around his neck and yanked him backwards—not quite off his feet, but off his balance. The archer flinched, clearly hanging onto his composure by his fingernails as big'n'blond hissed something annoyed and lecture-y at Frost before letting him go. The two of them glared at each other like pissed-off cats.

"Kid, get back in the room and close the door," the archer said, voice low.

"What, so you can continue your pissing match?" Kinsley said. The two giants turned around and looked at her, then at the archer. "Yeah, sure, shoot the giant Viking-lookin' motherfuckers who are _probably_ responsible for the tornado outside, I'm sure that's gonna go well."

"Don't know 'til I try, and I've got plenty of rounds," the archer said. Kinsley let out a disgusted growl.

"Fine. Have it your way," she snapped. She ducked back into Kate's room and slammed the door, then backed up and braced herself.

Yelling occurred, followed by a bunch of thumping. The lights flickered, then brightened and blew out, leaving the room totally dark and disturbingly silent except for Kate and Kinsley's breathing. Kinsley held onto the edge of the bed and thought about hiding on the other side. Her heart was pounding so hard that it hurt.

"What the fuck happened in New York, Kate?" she whispered.

Something hit the wall so hard that the whole room shook. Kinsley flinched and watched in trepidation as the door opened. Emergency lights were on in the hall, silhouetting the man in the doorway. _Jesus fucking Christ, how did this turn into a horror movie?_

"Kinsley."

It was Frost. _Fuck._ He tilted his head like a panther deciding what angle it was going to use to leap on its prey, but he didn't move.

"We spoke a few days ago. I was rather short with you, I'm afraid. It made Kate quite angry. Seeing you here, with her, protecting her, I think I begin to understand why."

His voice was like arsenic-laced cream, smooth and cool and deadly. Kinsley watched him, every muscle tensed. She knew that if he advanced on her, she'd throw herself out of the way, and the knowledge made her feel guilty. Guilty and angry.

"I'd remember if we talked," she said. She felt his smile more than she saw it.

"I'm fine, Kinsley. I'm in New York and I'm fine," Kate said, and Kinsley almost turned around to look at her before her brain caught up to her ears. _Frost._ Kate's voice had just come out of Frost's mouth.

Kinsley's breath caught. The phone call. The weird phone call in the middle of the night when Kate had been so bitchy—it hadn't been Kate. It had been _him._

"You son of a bitch," she breathed. "That was you, not her." Her heart skipped a couple beats. "Then where—what—"

Frost let out a long sigh, then said, his voice prickly, "Kinsley. I am going to explain myself briefly, then you are going to move out of my way—because my aim in appearing here is to help Kate, not to hurt her, and because I wish to avoid hurting you—"

Kinsley was already moving sideways, to the foot of the bed, when Frost cut himself off. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could see the quizzical incline of his head. "If you're going to help her, help her," Kinsley said. Her nails dug into her palms. "I don't care about explanations. I care about _her._ "

Frost was silent and unmoving for a moment. "Do you know who I am?" he asked finally, his voice low.

Kinsley shivered. "You're the asshat who let a bunch of aliens into New York," she said. "Yeah. I know who you are."

He lifted his head, and for the first time, the light from the hall fell onto the side of his face. His eye was dragon-green, nested in shadow and bone-white skin. "You know what I am, and you would let me take your friend. _Without_ explanation. _Without_ question."

Kinsley's cheeks burned. "You wanna call me a name, call me a name, _Lestat_ ," she snapped. The dragon eye narrowed. _Fuck._ "Look, I don't care about your villain monologue," Kinsley said quickly, trying to cut him off before he opened his mouth again and something awful came out. "Kate's dying, and no one knows why. Whatever happened in New York, or wherever the fuck she was, that's what screwed her up. So whatever you did, whatever you're gonna do, I don't give a shit. If you can fix Kate, fix her. If not, then get the fuck out and let her die in peace."

His lip curled in a snarl. "She's not dying."

"Oh, you're a medical expert as well as a supervillain?" Kinsley said, and took a step forward. "Do you care about her or not?"

He froze. "I am fulfilling a duty—" he began to say, but Kinsley smelled weakness and interrupted him.

"Simple question, simple answer, yes or no. Do. You. Care. About. Kate?"

Frost inhaled, and for a second, Kinsley thought that was it. She'd misjudged the moment, poked the dragon one too many times, and now she was going to get eaten. Frost loomed over her, mouth tight, hands in fists, every line of his body promising violence.

 _Goddammit,_ Kinsley thought, heart pounding. _I was going to get out of the way._  

Then Frost let out the breath he was holding, and the threat of immanent violence left his shoulders.

"Yes."

Kinsley swallowed. "Then stop talking and save her," she said.

Frost looked down at her. This close—almost close enough to touch—she could see the barely-leashed anger in his flattened lips. She had a fraction of a second's warning before he advanced on the bed, just enough to throw herself out of the way. She put her back to the wall next to the door as Frost bent over Kate. He growled something about barbarians and flung the Velcro cuffs across the room.

That was the closest she'd come to dying since the bar in Brooklyn, Kinsley thought, and a kind of numbness spread over her. _I almost died. I almost fucking died._

Frost slid his arms under Kate and straightened, lifting her. Her feet flopped, covered in sad little no-slip hospital booties; when Frost turned toward the door, there was an awful slackness to her face that Kinsley averted her eyes from instinctively. She regretted looking away as soon as Frost left the room; she followed him, only to stop in the doorway. There were half a dozen person-sized dents in the drywall, and two ceiling tiles had fallen; Frost, walking down the hall with his back to her, looked like a character in a bad SyFy movie.

Later, sitting in the passenger seat of Ryan's car with a blanket around her shoulders, Kinsley told herself that wouldn't be the last time she saw Kate. Frost would fix her, and he'd bring her back, and this would be the most epic roommate story of all time. They would be telling it to their kids, or their nephews and nieces, or the friggin' attendants at the old folks' home, _whatever_ , but they'd be telling it, and it would be a story with a happy ending. _And then Kate came back and she was better._ _The end._

Kinsley closed her eyes and saw Kate's slack face; the drops of blood trailing down the hallway like breadcrumbs.

 _Kate came back and she lived happily ever after,_ she told herself, tears sliding down her cheeks. _The end._


	44. Chapter 44

She fought Thanos across the Nine Realms. Sometimes Loki battled beside her; sometimes Fridur. More often she was alone as she faced Chitauri and Aesir and Frost Giants and creatures she didn't have names for, all of them blue-eyed with Thanos' compulsion. She fought in the streets of Asgard and in the shadows of New York City's skyscrapers; amid ancient rubble and under black skies dotted with unfamiliar stars. She fought, and bled, and died, and lived again, and she knew it was a dream—that they were all dreams—and she fought with no less determination.

She saw Fridur die a dozen times, a dozen ways: tortured, burned, fallen into an abyss. Sometimes she died protecting Kate; sometimes Kate died protecting her. The Alfar warrior smiled through it all. "A glorious death is an end devoutly to be wished," she said.

"What a bunch of crap," Kate told her, and Fridur laughed as they plunged into a horde of beastlings, swords raised.

If she saw Fridur die a dozen times, then she saw Loki die a hundred. Sometimes he died cursing her name. More often, he died frightened. "Kate," he said, as if she had the power to bring him back if she wanted to. "Kate, _please._ "

Every time, she felt like she'd failed him.

She killed Thanos over and over, with sword and knife and her bare bloody hands, and every time he was born anew in fire and ash, laughing. And every time he rose from the grave she'd put him in, she wiped the blood from her eyes and spat the mud from her mouth and picked up her sword again.

Because he wouldn't win. He would never fucking win. She wouldn’t let him.

\---

She dreamed that Loki came for her in thunder and lightning; that he broke her bonds with ease, cradled her body next to his heart. She dreamed that he carried her back to Asgard—Asgard unscarred by war, whose broad streets were not stained with blood, whose bright spires gleamed, whole—and that magic filled the broken places inside her. She dreamed that she opened her eyes and Loki was there, fear and hope on his face, her name a question on his lips.

She smiled. Dreams like this—dreams in which she wasn't fighting—were rare. She cupped the cold plane of his cheek with her hand and drank in the sight of him while she could: alive. Unhurt. Unafraid. Loki closed his eyes and leaned into her touch like a cat.

"Hey, there, troublemaker," she said, her voice hoarse.

"Little one," he said, and opened his eyes. Relief gave way to sorrow. She felt the fine, invisible tremble of his jaw. "I shouldn't have left. Kate—"

"Hey," she interrupted, raising her eyebrows. "It's okay." She stroked her thumb over his cheekbone. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, his fingers light and reverent. His eyes were clear and there was a sort of softness there that the real Loki didn't have. She smiled up at him. _God,_ this was a nice dream. "Let's just enjoy this, Loki. You, me, nobody bleeding—" She cut herself off and searched his face. "You're not bleeding, are you? You're not hurt?"

"No," he said softly. "No, I'm not hurt."

She let out a long sigh and relaxed. "Good. That's good." She closed her eyes. Darkness was eating at the edges of the dream, calling her back. She focused on the feel of Loki's face under her hand. "I don't like it when you're hurt. I don't mind if it's me, but I hate it when he hurts you."

"Kate?" Loki said, holding her wrist tighter.

"It's okay," she murmured. Her lips were numb. God, she wished this one would have lasted a little longer. "'S okay, Loki. I'll find you in the next one. I'll keep you safe. Promise . . ."

"Kate, no!"

She tried to hold on, but the dark was stronger. The dark was always stronger.

\---

Her mouth tasted like shit.

She rolled onto her elbow and her spine crackled into place. As she blinked her vision back into focus, she worked her tongue in her mouth and took stock. Her muscles were sore with that too-still-too-long feeling that happened when she slept without moving in the night, but otherwise she felt good. Rested. Maybe even hungry. Her stomach grumbled in agreement.

"Ah," Loki said. "You're awake."

She blinked the last of the sleep out of her eyes and rolled in the direction of Loki's voice, wrapping the silky sheets around her as she went. An empty brocade-upholstered chair next to the bed was slowly giving up the impression of an ass. Loki walked back into view, holding a tray the size of an industrial baking pan. She squinted up at him with one eye. He looked nervous as he set it on the bed next to her (it was a big bed—at least a queen, width-wise, but longer, too).

"They said you'd be hungry, but I wasn't sure what you'd want," Loki said, lifting covers from at least a dozen small plates. "The kitchens rarely prepare Midgardian food, I'm afraid, but they do keep some Midgardian spices on hand—cinnamon, turmeric, anise, lavender, ginger—"

Everything on the tray smelled delicious. "It'll be fine, Loki," Kate said, and snagged something that looked like a mini-pancake. She took a bite out of one side, then rolled it up and popped it in her mouth. "Umph," she said between chews. "'S more like a blini than a pancake." She examined the nearby dishes and found something that looked like a tiny bowl of preserves with a spoon sticking out of it. She dabbed a spoonful onto another pancake-thingy, rolled it up, and took a bite. The preserve was tart enough to make her purse her lips, but it tasted _really_ good on the pancake. "Mmmm. I dunno, Asgard's batting a thousand so far, Loki," she said, and looked up at him. He'd seated himself in the chair and was watching her, leaning forward, fingers curled nervously on his thighs. He smiled at her tentatively and said something that she didn't pay attention to, because it was _him._ It was real-Loki. She stopped chewing.

This wasn't a dream.

This was real.

"Kate?"

There were worry-lines on Loki's brow. His lips were parted, alarm growing in his eyes as she watched. She put her half-eaten pancake on the tray before it could fall out of her fingers and flattened her hand on the mattress. The big, Asgardian mattress, plunked down in the middle of a big Asgardian bedroom: vaulted stone ceiling, giant-ass fireplace, display shelves full of weapons and books, doors to other rooms, big arched windows covered with sheer curtains. She was back on Asgard. She was back on Asgard with Loki.

"This isn't a dream," she said, heart racing. She found Loki's eyes and searched them, desperate to find confirmation that this was real.

"This isn't a dream," he agreed. She dug her fingers into the sheets. _No._ No matter how much she wanted to believe, she couldn't trust her senses. She'd been fooled before.

"Prove it."

He looked at her, thinking. She made herself deepen and slow her breathing as she waited.

"I don't think I can," he said. His hands had tightened into fists, but his voice stayed calm. "I don't know what you saw before, with Thanos in your head. I know he tried to trick me."

"Thanos got to you?" she said, incredulous. He nodded, mouth flattening.

"He got to me. And through me, to you."

A muscle in his jaw ticked when he was finished talking. Her too-fast heartbeat slowed as she watched him. He was wearing a green tunic with a short collar, the neck open in a narrow vee to the middle of his pale chest. His hair was pushed back from his face and fell in soft dark waves nearly to his shoulders; someone had taken a flatiron to the fishhook points of his curls. His eyes weren't shadowed. Not like on Earth.

She took a deep breath. "War," she said. "I saw war."

He blinked. It was the equivalent of a hand to the bosom and a gasped "mercy me!" from anyone else. She felt her cheeks heat.

"I mean. I was fighting. Monsters and . . . aliens and things. I was trying to kill Thanos." She bit her lip. Was it a sign of reality that all of that was starting to sound stupid to her? "We died. You and me and Fridur. And Thanos. But he kept coming back. We kept killing him and he kept coming back to hurt us." She swallowed and met Loki's eyes. "To hurt you." She tried to smile and knew without needing a mirror that it came out an awkward grimace. "Silly—"

"He tried to make me believe he'd killed you," Loki said. He didn't smile back. There was a tension to his shoulders, as if he was pressing his fists into his thighs. "That was how he tortured me."

His expression was completely solemn, completely serious. Even . . . pained. Like remembering it hurt him.

There wasn't enough air in the room. She pressed her hands hard into the mattress and wished it was something hard, something she could hold onto. "I," she said, and had to stop. "I tried to give you up. On Earth. Right before . . . everything went to shit." She licked her lips, her head spinning. She couldn't read Loki's expression. It was frozen, his eyes a little too wide-open. "I had you in my head. Telling me what to do, keeping me alive. Then, when we switched back . . . you stayed. You cared. Tried to help. When I told you to go . . . it was the hardest thing I've done in a long time."

His jaw was iron. It looked like Kate's face felt. "We both left memories behind," Loki said through stiff lips.

Kate whispered, barely breathing, "We fell in love with each other's ghosts," then sucked in a breath. Loki flinched, but didn't look away. There was fear in his eyes, now, and Kate knew it was mirrored in hers, because _they were each other's weakness_. And both of them knew, without speaking, that there were only two things they could do about that: they could tear it out of their hearts. Or they could embrace it.

Kate looked at Loki and knew he couldn't reach for her. He couldn't make himself vulnerable like that; not after centuries learning to hide his loves and desires, everything that someone could take away to hurt him. He had survived enemies near and far, betrayals small and large, because he took no chances. Because a king could cherish no sentiments.

She was whole again. Loki was gone from her head, and so was Thanos. This time, if she went home, she could live her life. Pick up the pieces with Kinsley, if she could; move away from Albany, start fresh. It would be hard, but it would be a life. A life she made for herself. A good life, maybe, with love and friendship and happy times and bad times. She'd still have adventures. She could still fight for the things she thought were right. She just wouldn't be _fighting_ , fighting; she'd be rallying and writing and volunteering. And those were hard things, she knew, as hard as fighting.

If she left, though, Loki would be on his own. Facing off with Thanos over the fate of the universe. This time, maybe he'd be better armed, maybe he'd have Thor with him, but Thor didn't know what he was facing. Didn't know, like it was written on his bones, why Thanos had to be stopped: for Earth. For Asgard. For Kinsley and Fridur and the old man who'd tried to help her after she fell from the roof, for Ana Diadorim and Pepper Freaking Potts.

For _Kate herself._

When she held out her trembling hand, she didn't know if Loki would take it. She didn't know what it would mean if he did. All she knew was that she couldn't look away from him, and that she lived a lifetime, waiting. Until his cold, damp hand slipped into hers.

She gripped it hard enough to feel his bones shift and rolled her lips between her teeth, biting back words. There was fear on Loki's face, fear with an edge of panic, but determination, too. Kate held on to Loki; and Loki held on to her.

When her heart wasn't pounding so hard, she cleared her throat. "Will you eat with me?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

The pancakes were cold. They didn't mind.


	45. Chapter 45

He ended up in the bed with her, the tray balanced across their laps, insisting that she try this or that. Sometime she listened, and sometimes she ignored him, like with the tiny thin-skinned berries ( _seeds,_ Loki corrected her, eyebrow arched) that popped in her mouth with citrus brightness and the steamed buns filled with a ground mix of savory nutmeats, both of which she ate as quickly as she could stuff them in her mouth, making grumbling noises of protest when Loki tried to point out other dishes. He spent more time talking than eating, telling her the names of the dishes and their histories, and as her stomach stopped growling, she ate slower and listened closer. He spoke clearly and eloquently, backtracking whenever he realized he'd referenced something outside her knowledge, while always managing to return to the narrative he'd interrupted. Though he never strayed far from food, Kate found herself constructing an outline of Asgardian history and culture in her head.

When he paused to spread the last cracker-like bread round with a paste that Kate thought tasted suspiciously like spicy peanut butter, she cocked an eyebrow at him. "Did you pick the food deliberately?" she asked.

His mouth full, Loki tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. Kate waved her hand over the decimated tray.

"That was Asgard 101. The cultural push-pull between science and war, diplomacy and defense, trending toward the latter since Borr's rule. Paternalist attitudes towards 'developing'—" she made quote-marks in the air with her fingers ''—planets like Earth. Your weird-as-hell class system—"

Loki finished chewing, his eyebrow still raised, and raised his hands to make air-quotes. "Is this a gesture of derision?"

She narrowed her eyes at him and he grinned. He knew full well what air-quotes were. She bumped his shoulder with hers; after a second's hesitation, he bumped back, then turned his attention to the tray. "It wasn't deliberate," he said, and picked up a jam bowl. He looked at her sideways. "You listen closely."

"You're a good teacher."

His eyebrow twitched upward again before he turned his attention back to the jelly bowl. The pale-gold spread had tasted like honey and apples and flowers, and once Kate had realized it was Loki's favorite, she had let him eat most of it. A stubborn dab clung to the bottom of the bowl.

"Oh, just use your finger," Kate said. Loki turned a look of disapproval on her that was at least half mockery. She plucked the bowl—so small her index finger and thumb nearly encircled it—out of his hand. "Fine. I'll be the barbarian, then," she said, and used the side of her index finger to gather the last smears before offering the tiny golden lump to Loki.

As soon as she did, she realized what a silly, presumptuous gesture it was. Like Loki would want something she'd just stuck her fingers in? Her cheeks heated and she nearly jammed her finger in her mouth to dispose of the evidence. Loki saw the beginning of her gesture and caught her wrist lightly, barely touching her, then considered her for a moment, unsmiling. She wondered if he felt her heartbeat pulsing under his cool fingertips.

Without a word, he let his lips part and leaned forward until her finger was in his mouth, then closed his lips around it. He drew his head back slowly until her now-less-jammy finger popped out, then pressed his lips together for a moment before licking them.

Well. That was. That was a thing. A really insanely sexy thing that was making her ladyparts very insistent about the necessity of an expedited introduction to Loki's boyparts.

Loki saw the arousal/panic on Kate's face and his eyes widened. He let go of her wrist and shifted his weight away from her, opening his mouth to say something—an apology or an excuse—that Kate was sure she didn't want to hear, so she kissed him. His lips tasted like honey and flowers and they were as soft and sensual as they had been when they were an illusion.

When she pulled away, she was breathing heavily. Okay, _panting._ A little. But so was Loki, his pupils blown wide with desire.

"What's the name of that jelly?" she asked.

"Sötblom," he said. "Sweetblossom."

"I like that one."

He nodded, running his tongue over his lips. "Noted."

Tongue. Lips. _Ugh._ She squeezed her eyes shut and thumped her face into his shoulder.

"Kate?"

"Stop doing the thing."

He bent his head and buried his nose in her curls. "What thing?" he said into her hair, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

"That thing," she growled. " _Everything._ Dammit."

He wrapped his arm around her, smiling, and she relaxed into his shoulder. "Am I so objectionable?" he said, a laugh in his voice.

"You are the opposite of objectionable, and that's the problem, you jerk." Tentatively, she touched his side. He shifted away from the bed to let her curl her arm around him and they settled against each other with a shared sigh. He had a solid, muscular body under the green tunic and it did fluttery things to her insides to touch it.

_I am snuggling with a homicidal alien prince on another planet. After he brought me breakfast in bed. What is my life._

"You're thinking," he observed.

"I'm thinking about how strange this is," she said without looking up. Loki stilled. "Not you—not exactly," she said, then changed her mind about the lie and lifted her face so she could look at him. "Okay, you. You're strange. This is strange. Not strange- _bad_ , it's . . ." She hesitated. The look of polite interest on Loki's face was undermined by the tension in his body. She licked her lips nervously and felt a moment's satisfaction when his eyes shifted down and up again. "How long has it been?"

He was entirely still—not a flinch, not a flicker of movement other than his lips. "Since?"

She tried to be just as still. "Since New York. When we switched."

The quality of the tension in Loki changed. If Kate had to describe it, she would have said he went from holding himself back from running away to holding himself back from getting closer. "New York was almost five days ago."

She swallowed, her eyes sliding away to land, sightless, on one of Loki's bookshelves. _Five days._

Her brain insisted on trying to reconcile her memories and Loki's words. _The battles on Jotunheim had lasted from the morning until deep into the night—the one in New York had—no, she had fought in New York four times, one with the Chitauri and one—and Asgard, if you put all those together, she'd fought the most on Asgard, she'd fought—the time didn't make sense, but maybe—_

_CRASH!_

"Kate," Loki said, with the intonation of someone repeating himself. He was holding her by the shoulders, an intent look in his eyes. Their breakfast tray was gone; Kate looked for it and saw its contents strewn across the floor, a mix of broken pottery and spilled food.

"Shit—"

" _Kate._ It's not important," Loki said, but she was already breathing in fast, uncontrolled gasps, panic sending her heart racing. _Five days. Fighting. The tray—_

"Listen to me. Listen to my voice. You're safe, Kate. No one can hurt you. You're safe here. Listen to my voice," Loki said, his voice low and urgent, and he picked up her hand and flattened it over his chest. "Feel my heart. Nice and slow. Slow." He inhaled, and she felt his chest lift. "Deep breath, Kate. One deep breath for me, darling. You're safe. Breathe for me. Good, Kate. Keep breathing."

Her head was still spinning when the door to the right of the bed banged open and a guardsman lunged into the room, hand on his sword. Kate's attempt to roll into the shelter of the opposite side of the bed was foiled when Loki tightened his grip on her hand, holding her in place as he turned to glare at the guardsman.

"Out," he said. The guardsman froze with the ice of Loki's voice, his eyes wide, then retreated, drawing the door closed behind him. The frost left his eyes as he turned to Kate, to be replaced by worry.

Between the memories and the crash and the guard, her heart was going at a thousand beats a minute. Once—and not so long ago, if Loki was telling the truth—she would have been crying by now, overwhelmed by everything that was happening. Now, she wheezed a few breaths and clung with her free hand to Loki's sleeve and made her voice—shaky, squeaky, but _hers_ —ask for the information she needed.

"Which one of us is under guard, and why?"

She was shaking and all she really wanted to do was drag the covers off the bed and hide on the floor, but she kept her focus on Loki's face as his expression shifted from anger to concern to consideration. He let go of her wrist and flattened his hand over hers, trapping it against his chest.

"I am," he said. She saw a flicker of something dark in his eyes. "You're free to go at any time, Kate. Say the word, and someone will take you home."

She swallowed, trying to bring her voice under control. "Why are you under guard?"

He half-smiled. "I'd think that would be obvious." She attempted a glare whose intensity was undermined by her still-trembling shoulders. The smile faded from Loki's face. "I remain a traitor in the eyes of Asgard, Kate. I bargained for the right to see you again."

"Bargained?" she repeated.

"I promised nothing on your behalf, and nothing is expected of you," Loki said quickly. "Your injuries were received in service to Midgard and Asgard both, and so it was Asgard's duty to make you whole again."

Whole. Kate almost laughed at him for that. She remembered watching him die a hundred times and he said she was _whole—_

She forced her thoughts aside with a shudder. "What was the bargain, Loki?"

His eyes narrowed. She could feel him deciding what to tell her. She tightened her grip on his sleeve and tried to put _lie to me and I'll kick your ass_ in her eyes.

His lips pursed. _Huh,_ she thought as he opened his mouth to speak. _The eye thing worked._

"Thanos struck Alfheim," he said. "Much of the royal family is dead. Fridur's brother rules, but there is civil war in the streets. Fridur herself is missing." Loki paused. "As you might guess, this is an unwelcome state of affairs."

_Well, shit._ Distantly, she remembered Fridur's distraction at Avengers Tower when she had come back for Loki. Had she known something then? "So what are you supposed to do about it?" she asked, forcing her attention back to Loki.

The hint of lightness left his voice. "I am to find Fridur, if possible. I am to determine her feelings toward Asgard; and, assuming she is sound of mind and inclined toward Asgard, I am to launch a counter-coup to place her in power instead of her brother, while of course making all attempts to ensure that, success or failure, my actions are entirely unofficial and unconnected with Asgard."

Kate raised her eyebrows. Loki waited, his face unreadable.

"Asgardian black ops. No support, no extraction plan, no thanks when you're done, probably." Kate blew a raspberry. The ghost of a smile lifted the corners of Loki's mouth.

"I owe Asgard my service," he said. She made a face. He was right, but she didn't like it.

"When do you leave?" He hesitated, his weight shifting infinitesimally toward the door. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Now?" Her heart, which had been slowly sinking back to something like a normal rate, sped up again. She slipped her fingers into the neckline of his tunic and gripped the fabric. Loki smiled wryly and let go of her hand, but didn't try to dislodge her grip.

"I delayed to stay with you, Kate. Much longer, and there may not be a friendly Alfar princess for me to install on the throne."

She tried to think over the panic that yapped at her with a volume of a pack of terriers. _What are your options, Kate? What do you want? Think it through._

_What do I want?_ That . . . that was simple, actually.

"You're not going in this, are you?" she asked, pretending the breathiness in her voice was humor instead of panic. She forced her fingers to release Loki's sleeve and gave a nonchalant tug at his collar before letting go with her other hand.

"No," he said, questions skimming over the green sea of his eyes as he watched her. "I planned to visit the common armory before departing. My royal armor is unsuitable for obvious reasons, and I am uninterested in venturing into Thanos's territory in my shirt, for equally obvious reasons."

She swallowed. _Fuck. Fuck this idea. Fuck it with a pointy stick._ "Then we should get going," she said. "Given the scale of most Asgardians I've met, I figure we might have to do some looking to find something that'll fit me."

Loki went utterly still. "Kate."

She held up a finger to silence him and wished it wasn't visibly shaking.

"I owe Fridur," she said. Loki was utterly unreadable. She folded her finger into a fist and set it against the pillows, locking her elbow. "And I owe Thanos. And I am not letting you fight him alone."

Something flickered through his dark-green eyes. "You're not a warrior, Kate."

"I'm better than nothing, and I'm a fast learner." She swallowed. His face was unreadable. Part of her wanted to say _yes, you're right, I'm not a warrior, good point, I'll just stay here and eat pancakes_ , and she crushed that part of her in her fists and pressed it against the bed. "Loki. You know what it's like with Thanos. Time moves differently with him. Five days . . ." She took a breath that was more gasp than breath, and made herself continue. "It wasn't five days. It was . . . living and dying over and over again. What I saw—what I did—that's—that's more real to me than Earth. Than my _life._ " She stared into his expressionless green eyes, willing him to understand the feeling that she kept grasping toward with her words. "He hurt me. He hurt you. He'll keep hurting people I care about unless we stop him." She swallowed again. Loki didn't speak. "I'm not going to sit around and wait for you and Thor to save the Nine Realms. Not if I can help. And I can help."

She closed her mouth and squeezed her jaw tight. Had any of that made sense? It didn't feel like it had made sense. Dammit. _Dammit._ Why wasn't he saying anything? Why was he just looking at her like she'd dropped out of outer space?

Slowly—very slowly—he raised his hand to cup the side of her face. "You are a fool, Kate Sullivan," he said, his voice soft. "And I am a monster not to tell you to stay away."

Her heart skip-jumped. She grabbed his free hand with hers and squeezed it too hard, then leaned in and kissed him ungracefully, mashing her mouth into his until they were both breathless and backing away.

"A fool and a monster," she said, a mad laugh bubbling up in her chest. "Yeah. We're totally gonna kick Thanos's ass."

A smile spread across Loki's face. He didn't say anything; he didn't have to. She gave his hand a squeeze and slid out of bed. When she stood, she wasn't shaking. She wasn't _strong,_ exactly, but she wasn't shaking.

That would do for now.


	46. Chapter 46

She stood with the windows at her back, the thin silk underdress clinging to her curves, and Loki thought, _she is not the mortal who threatened to pour a drink on my suit._

This woman had known fear and rage. She had been tortured and she had known madness because of it (and it should have shamed him, how much pleasure he felt that Thanos had used the illusion of Loki's pain to hurt her; that she felt deeply enough for him that the illusion of his suffering caused her pain). She had been falsely accused on Asgard and abandoned by Midgard's so-called heroes, and all this had darkened her heart and her thoughts, yet still— _still_ —she laughed. She teased. That clever mortal mind observed and analyzed every word he spoke, forever curious. She was brave, but unlike Thor, she knew her bravery was foolish: she knew it, and she chose it anyway.

_You are the opposite of objectionable._

Loki had always known he would marry to advance Asgard's interests. For years, that had meant Sigyn: brilliant, sharp, beautiful Sigyn, his match in so many ways. _I think I love you,_ he'd told her, half-wishful and half-honest, and she had told him he didn't. _Stop thinking with your balls, Loki._ As if it wasn't—even then—her ability to protect herself ruthlessly, her incomparable mind, her immense strength, that drew him to her. That _still_ drew him to her.

But it was not to be. With one engagement broken, Odin and Frigga had sought others; but by then, Loki's difficult temperament had shown itself. _Difficult temperament_ was Frigga's term. In truth, it was the first stirrings of frustration on Loki's part as he began to realize that no matter how skilled he became as a warrior, no matter how knowledgeable he became as a prince, it was Thor who would be shown favor; Thor who would be praised and rewarded until he was given that final reward, the throne, whether he was truly worthy of it or not. Loki's pranks turned crueler, darker; and eventually, Odin and Frigga stopped trying to arrange a match.

Which was not to say there were none interested in congress with Loki. He was third in line to the throne and an intimate of Thor, heir presumptive; if he was not the heir, he still had power. He cherished no illusions about these suitors. If they whispered sincere-sounding words of love in his ear as they spent themselves on Loki's bed, it was power they courted, not him; and never was that clearer than when each relationship reached its inevitable end.  _Cold-blooded bastard,_ they called him, _liar, monster,_ none knowing how true their words were. He told himself this was only as it should be, that to love was to hand his enemies weapons that could only be turned against him. Kings did not love anything but their kingdoms; and he would be king.

_We fell in love with each other's ghosts_.

He'd told himself the Kate in his head was more fantasy than reality; that she was Thanos's creature, designed for the sole purpose of capturing his affections. She was funny and angry and quick-witted and vengeful and she didn't lie to him. She understood his intentions and she demanded better of him. She told him to act like a king and she _expected_ him to do it.

_I don't love her,_ he had told Thanos. And he had lied. And then he'd met the real Kate, and she . . . she had dreamed of fighting for him.

And she was ready to keep fighting.

Kate put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrow at him. "You're staring."

Loki smiled as a distant memory surfaced. "I would say I'm appreciating your form, but I was once corrected in very strong terms about thinking such things of Midgardian women," he said. Kate's other eyebrow joined the first, and she turned with a deliberate sway of her hips that made his eyes drop.

"All right, then. You go on _not_ appreciating my form, and I'm going to wash my face, assuming you've got a bathroom in this slum."

She had a very fine ass. "Your left," Loki said, pointing, and watched it disappear into his private bathing chambers. He thought for a moment of joining her—naked, wet Kate, what a pleasant thought—then sighed. He'd spoken truthfully when he told Kate that further delay could be fatal for Fridur. He'd already stayed longer than he should have.

Someone knocked at the door. He clenched his teeth and considered the effect of the current arrangement of the room—disarrayed sheets, tray turned over on the floor. He rose, and a quick illusion hid the tray and the indentation on the bed where he had sat. He walked to his desk and posed himself with a hand on a book before drawling, "Enter."

The door opened cautiously, which was his first indication that it was not Thor coming to demand he fulfil his promise to seek out Fridur. The second indication was that all he could see was a cloth-draped arming form advancing through the door.

"My l—uh, Loki," a voice came from behind the form. It wobbled into the center of the room before settling, then the owner of the voice peered from around it. "The queen your mother sends greetings, and gifts."

The servingwoman had a familiar face. Before he could place it, she scurried away from the form and into the hall, then returned with a second, smaller form that she placed alongside the first as if she was building a wall between Loki and herself. "She sends her love, and wishes you fortune, and bids you to do honor to Asgard," she said from behind the forms, then popped her head out again, black locks swinging. The palace matron, his mother's chief attendant, he thought suddenly; that was who he reminded her of, but younger. Her daughter.

"Vivie," he said when the nickname surfaced from his memory, and her brown eyes brightened. He inclined his head and let a hint of smile show on his face. If anyone on Asgard was inclined to see him in a sympathetic light, it was his mother's personal servants. "You're taller."

She rolled her eyes, but stayed mostly behind the arming form. "No, I'm not," she said. Loki smiled widely and wished he could risk a step closer.

"Yes, you are." He lifted his free hand and held his fingers a pea's-width apart. "Don't deny it, you're this much taller, it's quite clear. You're going to need new dresses."

The girl giggled and hid her mouth with her hand, then straightened, doing her best to look solemn. "Remember. Honor to Asgard," she said, then her eyes widened. "I'm glad you're back, Loki," she whispered, then turned and ran, slamming the door behind her.

A door behind him opened and he heard Kate's bare feet on the stone. "Everything okay?" she asked. "What are _those?_ "

Loki didn't answer for a moment, frozen with one hand before him and the other resting on the table. All he could think was that she was the same age as one of Fridur's nephews. A child. Alive because she served on Asgard, not Alfheim. Alive and safe while Asgard remained safe. While Thanos turned his attention to other worlds, other children.

Kate padded across the floor and stopped just out of arm's-reach. "Loki."

_I will destroy you, Thanos,_ he thought, then turned to Kate, smiling. "My mother's gifts," he said. "Let us see what they are."

Kate squinted at him, sensing the lie in his expression, but didn't voice an objection as Loki turned toward the stands. He pulled the cover from the larger, nearer one and began to laugh.

Kate looked from him to the stand and back. "A coat. A coat is funny? Why is the coat funny?"

He'd guessed it was armor; there was little else of that size and shape that he could imagine Frigga sending him. But this—this was the armor the Chitauri had made him, only _better_. The pauldron on his right shoulder of his coat curved with his body and required no cumbersome strap to hold it in place; the front was reinforced with bronze-colored panels etched with delicate engraving. He lifted it from the stand and grinned. More protection, and it was still _lighter._

"My mother is an armorer," he said, and ran his fingers over the metalwork. It wouldn't be her handiwork; even if she'd begun it the moment she saw the Chitauri armor, she wouldn't have had time to complete it. She'd designed it, then set the castle armorers to complete it. He traced the abstract, branching roots. Her design, of course. Nothing so obvious as Asgardian protection runes; just the Yggdrasil, the World Tree. _Family._

The breastplate and underjacket had simplified closures, making them easier to put on and take off alone. Trousers, boots, soft-as-silk undertunic: everything but weapons. He laid the coat on the bed reluctantly and turned to the second stand.

Beneath the cover was a second set of armor: smaller, simpler, and radically different in style. To eyes unused to his mother's work, it might pass lazy scrutiny as not being armor at all: black vambraces blended into the black leather of the jacket; a reinforced collar protected the neck, while panels of flexible reinforcement overlapped the front, partly hidden by wide lapels. A single solid panel protected much of the upper back, while smaller panels—in the same overlapping pattern as the front—covered the kidneys, stopping at the top of the hips. The breastplate and underjacket echoed Loki's armor, while the trousers incorporated reinforced panels on the thighs. The design was slightly asymmetrical, to accommodate a holster or brace of some kind; Loki assumed whatever it was, was in the box balanced at the bottom of the stand, between matching boots.

Frigga had made Kate armor.

He turned to her, smiling slightly, and was pleased to see her eyes widening as she glanced from Loki's armor to hers. "Holy shit," she muttered. She reached out, stopping just before she touched the jacket. She turned Loki.

"It's yours," he said, smile widening at the shock in her eyes. She looked at it again.

"Your mom . . . made this? For me?"

She still wasn't quite touching the jacket. He reached around her, lifted the jacket off the form—it was even lighter than his own—and held it open for her. She ran a finger over the lapel, then turned and let him help her slide her arms in. She shrugged it into place, loose without its accompanying underjacket.

"This—it fits like it was _made_ for me," she said, then spun to look at Loki. "How did she—how did you—what—?"

He tested the flexibility of an armor panel with his fingers. It wouldn't hold out against a high-powered projectile, or a direct strike with piercing weapon, but it would turn aside glancing blows and distribute the force of a blunt weapon. Frigga had given Kate an assassin's armor: lightweight, subtle, fitted to impair her motion as little as possible. He approved of her judgment.

"Frigga has the gift of prophecy," he said. He raised his eyes to Kate's. "And I imagine she spoke to the healers about your dimensions," he added, seeing the edge of fear in Kate's eyes at _prophecy._

"So your mom thinks I'm going to need armor," she said, and it wasn't an edge of fear any longer; it was a tremble. Loki slid the jacket off her shoulders.

"Armor has other purposes than defending against blows," he said, and laid the jacket on the foot of the bed, where its true nature—as protection, not clothing—betrayed itself in the odd, lumpy way it draped. "Armor identifies its wearer as a warrior, warning away those who would prey on the unprepared; it demonstrates affiliation and status, ensuring that your allies recognize you and obey your orders without hesitation; and it enforces vigilance, by poking you in the least comfortable place possible when you try to relax."

He added a smile to the last point, but Kate didn't laugh. She was looking at Loki's armor, a crease on her brow.

"That's—not the armor I was wearing. When the Frost Giants." She stopped without finishing, her eyes going distant.

_The Jotuns_. Anger filled his veins in a rush. Sigyn had said only that they had found the ones hiding among the servants. He assumed they were dead, but he was strongly tempted to track them down and make sure—

His thoughts were interrupted by the dark, intent look in Kate's eyes when she turned to him. "We have business on Jotunheim," she said, her voice low and deadly. "After."

Kate with murder in her eyes tempted Loki to other things than tracking down Jotuns. He waited a moment to ensure his voice was under control, then said, "As you wish."

He thought cold, dry, boring-as-possible thoughts while Kate looked at her armor again, the violence fading from her thoughts. When she spoke, he'd nearly brought his wayward impulses to heel.

"Do you have paper and a pen?" she asked.  "I need to write your mom a thank-you note."

 "A thank-you note?"

She gave him a mock-incredulous look. "What? Asgard's too advanced for thank-you notes?"

Loki opened his mouth, realized he didn't know what to say, and started to laugh. Kate poked him in the side.

"You've never written your mom a thank-you note? What kind of barbarian are you?"

He laughed harder, bending with the force of his amusement. A _thank-you note_. For _armor._

Kate kicked his ankle, then walked around him and plopped herself into his writing seat, craning her neck to look over the desk and its drawers without actually opening any of them. "Top drawer," he said, grinning, before he began laughing again. She shot a look of raised-eyebrow disapproval in his direction before opening the drawer and taking out a sheet of paper. He pointed toward the pens before shaking his head and turning toward the arming stands.

A _thank-you note._ Gods, mortals were funny.

He was still grinning as Kate's pen began to scratch against the paper. He ran his hands over the armor again, ensuring the stand held everything he needed, then he began to strip out of his clothes. When he was down to his trousers, he realized the pen-scratches had stopped. _It's my turn to be the distraction,_ he thought, a smirk curving his lips, and he turned toward the desk.

Kate's eyes were not filled with lust. He kept the smirk on his face by force of will.

"Does the sight please you?" he said. An irrational sense of worry sent his heart fluttering. He watched Kate, and realized she was looking at his scars.

"I remember some of those," she said, her voice soft. "But not all of them." Her eyes lifted from the scars to his face, and he saw pity in them.

"I'm more than a thousand years old," he said sharply. "You've known me two weeks. I wouldn't expect you to."

She flinched, as he'd meant her to, and he regretted his words. She didn't drop her eyes, though. "They're my scars, too, Loki," she said, her voice still low, but harder. "My . . . debts."

She held his gaze a heartbeat longer, then looked down at the desk. He watched her curls bounce when she began to write, the motion of the pen transferred from hand to arm to body to head. He composed and discarded a half-dozen attempts at smoothing the tension between them before Kate set down the pen, carefully folded and folded the paper until it was a rectangle the size of her palm, and wrote _Frigga_ on the outside.

They'd spoken only the truth to each other, Loki thought. He was older than her very language. She was a mortal. This feeling between them—it wasn't an illusion, but how could it be more than ephemera, a blink in his lifetime the length of hers?

Lifetime _._ _You assume she'd be interested in you that long_ , he chided himself, and turned away from her. His chest was filled with broken glass. _You're a traitor and a monster. If she wasn't so damn foolish, she would have run away from you long ago._

_If you hadn't gotten her hurt so badly, she wouldn't even be here._

_You and your gods-damned arrogance. Believing you were worth saving. Believing you could trick a creature older, stronger, immensely more powerful than yourself._

Cool fingers touched his back. He flinched, then stilled. She traced them, one by one: the brand and the knife and the sword, the flame and the whip and the claw. Spear. Mace. Stone.

When she finished, she lifted her hand from him, and his skin tingled with her absence. He didn't move as she circled to stand in front of him, her face solemn and unreadable as she looked up at him. He dropped his chin and wanted to kiss the apology he couldn't speak onto her lips.

"You've survived a thousand years," she said. "Keep me alive another two weeks."

Her eyes were wells of darkness. He offered her his hand; when she took it, he carried her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.

"I swear it," he said.

She looked at him a moment longer, then nodded.

"Let's go save a princess."


	47. Chapter 47

The box sitting on the bottom of the stand that held her armor— _her armor_ , holy fucking shit, she had fucking _armor_ —had a few extra surprises when Kate opened it. First was a bra and a pair of boyshort undies, both made out of a black silky-cottony fabric, which was _kiiiind_ of embarrassing but also, when she put them on, a combination of _oh thank god I don't have to go commando_ and _holy shit Asgardian bras are amazing._ It didn't look all that different from most of her bras, but somehow it was light and unpinchy and supportive and the straps didn't dig into her shoulders and, just from looking down, not even checking herself out in a mirror, it was doing fucking _magical_ things to her boobs in the separation and uplift departments.

Loki, banished to his library while she dressed, called through the cracked-open door, "What do those noises mean, Kate? I can't tell if you're distressed or delighted."

"They mean your mom should open a bra shop on Earth," she yelled back, and gave her breasts a last astonished-and-delighted plumping before turning back to the box. Underneath the cloth that had wrapped her Asgardian lingerie was a tangle of leather straps and a knife. _The god-killing knife_ , Kate realized when she yanked it loose from its close-fitting sheath; she studied the shine of the light on the curve of the blade before re-sheathing it and setting it, straps and all, on the end of Loki's bed.

"Do you need assistance?"

"No peeking," Kate admonished him, then turned to the mannequin-thingy that held her armor. _Her armor_. She gave her head a shake and pulled the pants off the form.

They were high-waisted, leather, and close-fitting, and they _should_ have been absolute murder, but somehow they fit like her favorite pair of jeans, if her favorite pair of jeans had armor plates in the thighs. After some trial and error, she tucked the soft-as-Modal-blend-cotton green shirt into the pants, then put on the breastplate, the jacket, and the boots.

She felt like a fucking badass when she put the jacket on.

She felt less like a badass when she couldn't figure out how to get the belt with the knife on.

"Okay, now I need help," Kate said aloud. Loki popped through the door as if he'd been standing on the other side of it, waiting, and for a second, Kate just stared at him.

The armor Loki's mom had made was somehow . . . _classier_ than the Chitauri stuff. Less "fear me, mortals!" and more "I've outlived fifteen generations of your kind, and I'll outlive another fifteen after I casually crush you on my way to world domination." And Loki looked _ridiculously_ good in it. Kate realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it.

"You seem to have had no trouble," Loki said, his voice forcedly casual. He came toward her, and Kate belatedly realized he'd stopped dead as soon as he had seen her. _That makes two of us with an armor kink,_ she thought, and swallowed a giggle. She held up the knife.

"Can't figure this out."

Loki's step hitched and his eyes widened. "Well," he said, then took the knife by the straps. He looked at it for a moment, then wrapped the longest strap around her waist and buckled it. "I suppose it makes sense. You're the only one who can wield it, after all."

"I'm what?" Kate asked the top of Loki's head. He threaded the second strap around her thigh and tightened it. She tried not to imagine other things Loki could be doing in that position, and failed. Loki looked up, caught something of her thoughts in her expression, and smirked. Her face burst into flame.

"Only a mortal can handle the knife. Borr meant it to be used solely by Midgardians, apparently." Loki stood, remaining only inches away from her. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the face. He didn't look her in the eye, instead giving the bottom of her breastplate an experimental tug. "Comfortable? Does it fit well?"

"I, uh, don't really have a ton of experience with armor to make comparisons, but yeah. Yeah, it's comfortable." Loki pulled on the jacket, then closed it—one lapel flattened, and the other sealed over it like it was magnetic—before running a finger between the collar and Kate's neck. She caught her breath.

"It doesn't dig?"

She shook her head and let out a sigh when Loki took his hand off her collar. He stepped back. "Draw the knife."

He still wasn't looking at her face. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why?"

"Better to adjust the draw now than to find yourself fumbling when there's an angry Alfar soldier running at you," Loki said without looking at her face, folding his arms. "Please."

Kate sighed and reached for it, stopping when Loki let out a disapproving grunt. "Which hand is dominant?"

"I dunno, I haven't tried arm-wrestling myself," she said. Loki looked down his nose at her. "I'm right-handed."

He looked at her, thinking, for a moment longer, then bent and quickly undid the straps on her thigh and waist. _Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day_ , Kate chanted to herself, fixing her eyes on the ceiling until Loki had switched the sheath to her left leg and stood again.

"Draw," he said.

Her heart skipped. "Are we fighting? Because I really don't want to fight—"

"Kate," he said warningly. She sighed and pulled the knife out of the sheath. Loki huffed, and took Kate's hand in both of his to rearrange her fingers so that the grip crossed her palm diagonally instead of horizontally, her thumb along the grip instead of wrapped around it. "Hold it gently," he said. He arranged her arm in front of her, slightly bent, then turned her shoulders sideways and pushed down on them until her knees flexed. "The knife protects you; you don't protect the knife. Keep it between you and your enemy. If he tries to close on you . . ." Loki stepped forward until the tip rested against his breastplate with a clink.

Her heart was racing. _The knife protects you,_ she repeated to herself, then nodded at Loki. He looked her in the eye for a moment, checking on her, then took her wrist and guided her hand through a gentle looping motion.

"Move in circles," he said. "A knife _slices_ or _stabs_ ; it does not—" he turned her hand sideways and brought the blade horizontally against his chest twice, with a pair of hollow thunks "—whack. _Slice,_ " he said, and guided her hand to bring the blade across his armor, "or _stab_." He turned her hand so that the tip pointed at him again and brought it _tap, tapping_ against his chest.

"Slice or stab," Kate muttered, then shivered. Loki looked at her, his eyes steady and reassuring, then let go of her hand and stepped back. His knife showed up in his hand.

"Sheathe it and draw it again, like this," he said, then held the knife in front of his left thigh, and brought it up in a quick sweep. Kate fumbled the knife back into the sheath on the second try—who knew that knife-sheaths were as bad as thumb drives at being un-obviously directional?—then yanked it out, grimacing immediately when she realized she was still holding it like a pigsticker.

"Small motions," Loki said patiently. "Try again. Small is fast. Small is controlled. Swing your arm around, and someone will grab it."

Kate sheathed the knife, and drew it, and sheathed it, and drew it, until she could at least get it back into the sheath on the first try. "Right," she muttered. "As long as they have a weakness for very small knives, I should be good." She sheathed the knife again, using her left hand to steady the point, and drew herself up with a sigh. She was so screwed. "I'm gonna last like five seconds in a fight, aren't I?"

Loki smiled unexpectedly. "Only if it's a fair fight," he said, and tilted his head. "And if you're in a fair fight, you've already made a mistake."

Kate raised an eyebrow at him. "Right."

He held out a hand to her, and she took with her right hand, letting him draw her in. She turned up her face, and he bent his head to kiss her. She felt the armor under his coat, searching out the places where the plates met.

"I'll protect you, Kate," he said softly. She smiled up at him, then held the knife—which she had kept in her left hand—against Loki's armor, counting on the seams being symmetrical.

"And I'll protect you," she said in her most saccharine-sweet voice.

Loki glanced down at the knife, then grinned as widely as she'd ever seen him grin. "My devious darling." He bent and kissed her hard. When he lifted his head, they were both breathing fast.

"I'll ask for a more complete demonstration another time," he said. "For now, we have a revolution to assist."

"Right," she said. "Down with the king. Up with Fridur. Woo."

He smiled, the amusement in his eyes turning into something darker. "Down with the king, indeed."


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Kate and Loki push each other around in the course of an argument.

"No," Thor said, his voice echoing in hallway outside Loki's rooms.

"Nice to see you, too, Thor," Kate said. She took up a position—deliberately or accidentally—to Loki's left, a half-step behind him. Thor managed to look both angry and apologetic.

"I mean no disrespect, Kate Sullivan; but if you intend to travel with Loki to Alfheim—"

"I'm not from Asgard," Kate interrupted, before Loki could do it himself. She stood straight and stiff. "I can't screw up the politics involved. And I owe as much to Fridur as Loki does."

She glared up at Thor and he frowned down at her, his expression turning worried.

"Mother made her armor," Loki said, anticipating his objection. He gestured at Kate's hip. "And gave her Borr's knife."

Thor's blond eyebrows jerked upward as he registered the knife. He turned to Loki, eyes questioning, and Loki just smiled.

"Armor or not, you are no warrior, Kate," Thor said, his eyes on Loki, then turned to her, his voice gentling. "You are under no obligation to Asgard or to Loki." His eyes cut suspiciously to Loki. "If anything Loki has said—"

Loki didn't even have time to adopt a wounded look before Kate was snapping at Thor. "Loki didn't invite me to this party, I invited myself. I'm going, Thor, and unless you want to lock me up in the dungeon again, there's nothing you can do to stop me."

Thor flinched. _Good girl,_ Loki thought. Unsubtle, but good. Thor didn't give up easily, though.

"Fridur's second-in-command and a party of Alfar warriors will go with Loki. All of them know the ground they must cover, but they will be traveling among people who may be allies or enemies. If any of them must split their attention in order to keep watch for you, it will endanger—"

"Oh, bullshit," Kate interrupted, wearing a look of disgust. "Their priority is Fridur. They know that, I know that, they're not going to make a special effort to keep me from tripping over my own feet, and I'm not planning on asking them to. As it happens, I've gotten pretty damn good at not dying, Thor." She held up her hand and raised fingers as she spoke. "Chitauri. Aesir. Frost giants. Fucking _Thanos_ himself. And _that_ was without Ex-kill-aber, here," she finished, dropping her hand to the grip of the knife. Thor blinked, looking momentarily confused. Kate's voice dropped. "This is my choice, Thor."

Her pulse fluttered in her throat, the only indication that her brave front was just that—a front. She stood her ground for a long moment, eyes locked on Thor, feet planted, while Loki's brother wore his thoughts on his face: confusion turning to annoyance, uncertainty turning to worry.

"Kate, your loyalty speaks well of you, but Fridur is a warrior and a ruler herself," he said, his voice softening, almost cajoling. "This journey to Alfheim—it will not be safe for a mortal, much less one untrained in the arts of war. She would not expect it of you."

"Maybe I don't want to be safe," Kate said immediately, her voice low. "And maybe this isn't all about Fridur." She took a deep breath and let her shoulders drop, her hand slide from the handle of the knife. Consciously or not, Thor mirrored the change in her posture, some of the tension leaving his body. Loki saw the moment she registered the change and leaned in. "You can't have Loki's back on this one, Thor," she said, her eyes earnest. " _Let me_."

Thor straightened in surprise and looked at him. Only long practice kept the turmoil in Loki's chest off his face. She thought she was protecting him. _She_ thought. _Him._ Rage and fear made him light-headed.

He kept his mouth shut, unable to trust himself to speak. Thor read something in his eyes—and damn Thor for a fool if it was weakness, because it _wasn't_ weakness, it _wasn't_ —and turned back to Kate. His voice was gentler when he spoke, and Loki wanted to snarl something awful and turn his back on both of them.

"Very well, then," he said, and offered his hand to her. "Good hunting, little sister."

She half-smiled back at Thor and took his hand. Loki looked past them, down the empty hallway. _To Hel with both of them._

"Thanks."

"We should go," Loki said, and cursed himself for the sharp way it came out, drawing looks from both of them: surprise from Thor, instant suspicion from Kate. He thought of adding something unpleasant for Kate—something, _anything,_ to point out the utter foolishness of her statement about "having his back"—but his usually-quick mind stuttered, and he settled for simply walking between them, forcing Thor to step back. Kate didn't move quickly enough, and his arm thumped her in the chest. _There,_ he thought, even as guilt sank its teeth into him, _I don't have to say a thing; her mortal clumsiness speaks for me_. _She's weak. Any delusion she has of protecting me is clearly visible as such to anyone with eyes to see._

"Loki," Thor called, an edge of anger in his voice. Loki didn't stop. Kate said something, her voice too low for Loki to catch, then she was hurrying up behind him, her feet a quick clatter. Their rapid pace echoed his heart.

_Can't show weakness; can't let Thor know she cares about me; can't show that I care about her; gods damn me for a fool, she's a mortal with a knife and I'm dragging her into a civil war on another planet, Loki you selfish bastard—_

"Long-legged asshole," Kate muttered behind him. "Can't even stare at your butt because of that stupid coat—"

He turned a corner. Ahead, other royal suites—for high-ranking guests, or larger royal families—led off the hall, mainly unused. Stairs to take them down to the courtyards waited at the end. Instead of continuing in their direction, he spun, caught Kate by the shoulders, and shoved her into an alcove. She hit the door harder than he meant— _so light, she wasn't all dense muscle and heavy armor like Thor or Sif or any of the others he'd sparred with, she was a bird-boned mortal_ , _another reason he was a bastard to try to take her with him_ —and swore at him before he laid his arm across her throat.

His heart was racing. He opened his mouth to tell her she was an idiot: she'd put them both in danger by telling Thor she would protect him, by implying that he was weak, by implying that she cared about him and therefore he cared about her. She'd turned herself into a weapon that Thor or anyone could use against him—all someone had to do was hurt her, threaten to hurt her, threaten to break her brittle mortal bones or cut her delicate throat, and he would—

"What the fuck are you doing?" she asked, and the edge of panic, of _fear_ in her voice, cut through his thoughts like a knife. Cut through and cut them away, leaving him staring at her wide dark eyes, mouth open, head empty.

Tongue-tied. Irrational. Panicked. She was weak? She was making _him_ weak—making him second-guess himself, making him hesitate, distracting him.

"You can't go," he said. He meant it to be authoritative, but his voice wasn't behaving; he sounded terrified, even to himself. He swallowed and tried again as Kate's eyes turned stormy. "Kate, you—"

"Shut your mouth," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Kate—" he started to say, and she hit him with both palms in the breastplate, hard enough to rock him back.

"No." Her jaw was set, her fists clenched. "Whatever you're about to say, _no._ " She hit him again, harder, and he dropped his arm, which somehow encouraged her to get closer to him. She rose onto her toes, and it should have made him laugh—the sight of her teetering angrily, mouth pursed, eyes in an angry squint—but all he felt was confused panic. "I'm not leaving you," she snarled. "Loki, I—"

She stopped, her mouth open, teeth showing, and he saw it in her eyes. What neither of them would say. What neither of them _could_ say.

She slid her hand under his coat and around the corner of his breastplate, gripping it hard. "This only works if we stick together," she said. She shook his armor. "So we _stick together,_ " she growled.

He swayed, unsteady on his feet, and stared into her face, memorizing every curve, every contour, desperate. If he didn't make it back, if he made it back but he couldn't leave Asgard again, if he never saw her face then he needed this memory, this image, to remind him that someone loved him like this—

Her eyes widened. She leaned in, her hands shaking. "Don't tell me this isn't what I'm supposed to be doing, Loki," she whispered. "Don't tell me that this isn't where I'm supposed to be. Say nothing if you have to, but just . . . don't. Don't tell me I don't belong."

It was the wrong decision. It was the wrong decision, and he knew it, and it made him ache and hate her a little, because it had been so long since he felt this way, so _gods-damned long_ , and he wanted to be stronger, but he wanted to be stronger for _her_ , and it was going to go badly, he knew it, he knew it even without Frigga's gift of armor, but he couldn't.

He couldn't push her away.

He bent his head and he kissed her mouth and he said nothing.

He said nothing at all.


	49. Chapter 49

The elf who was supposed to take them to find Fridur was, if it was possible, even less excited than Thor had been about Kate coming along.

"She's useless," she said to Loki, sharp teeth flashing. Kate curled her hand around the grip of her knife for reassurance and gritted her teeth. Before she could say anything, though, Loki spoke.

"Kate is not negotiable."

The elf tried to glare him into backing off, but his face was like marble. Eventually she decided the eyestrain wasn't worth it and turned her back on him to bark orders at the handful of elf buddies she'd brought with her. Kate let out a long breath.

"Stay close to me," Loki said quietly as the elves gathered in the middle of the empty-but-kinda-familiar courtyard. "Whatever happens, whatever anyone else says—stay close to me. On my left side, if possible, one step behind. If I say duck, duck. If I say hide, hide. If I say run—"

"Run like hell," Kate said. She looked up at him. He didn't look at her. His mouth had taken on a grim set since they'd faced down Thor, his eyes a darkness that made her stomach knot.

No. Not since they'd faced down Thor. Since he'd changed his mind about taking her with him, and she'd changed it back.

_I'm not leaving you._

She'd felt him start to slip away from her when Thor gave in. Maybe he'd expected Thor to talk her out of going; maybe he'd never wanted her along. Then his surefire plan— _let Thor be the bad guy,_ because of course that'd be Loki's plan, he never got his hands dirty if he could avoid it—had failed.

Had he tried to leave her behind because he thought she'd endanger their mission to find Fridur and help her? It was true that she was probably more liability than help, but she didn't think Loki cared that much about Fridur, even if she'd saved him by extension when she saved Kate. More likely, Kate thought, was that Loki was worried she'd endanger _him_ —distract him at the wrong time, draw attention at the wrong moment, just plain _screw up_ somehow.

It couldn't be that he was reluctant to take her along because she was putting _herself_ in danger. He liked her—the fact that she'd woken up to him sitting next to her, the fact that he was still talking to her, that was proof enough that he liked her. Loki wasn't the kind of person to inconvenience himself in order to avoid hurting someone's feelings. But liking her enough to worry about her, to want her safe, even against her expressed wishes—that was a different kind of liking.

A servant showed up and handed him a folded sheet of paper like it was something she'd picked up out of the mud. Loki took it with barely a nod of acknowledgement, and Kate studied his smooth, unnaturally-youthful face as he read.

She'd come to terms with being in love with Loki. She'd fallen too fast, and for someone who maybe wasn't really him—the Loki in her head. They were _literally_ from different worlds; she didn't need to know anything more about Asgard than she already did to know that she couldn't fit in here, and he wouldn't fit in on Earth. He was dangerous, manipulative person who'd done terrible things, and if he felt anything for her, then his feelings were for the Kate that Thanos had made for him, not her. It was that Kate—more pliable? More sympathetic? More sexy?—whose death had tortured him.

Falling in love with Loki didn't make sense. It was, almost certainly, one of the stupider things she'd done in her life. She'd decided not to care.

She loved him. She'd fight beside him. And if her feelings changed, or if he made it impossible for her to love him by being such a shit that she couldn't stand him, then she'd stop. But not before then.

He lifted his head from the paper, his mouth already opening to speak, and stilled when he caught sight of her. He studied her, momentarily distracted from the letter's contents, and she wondered what he'd do if she ever said it aloud. _I love you._ Would he mock her? Lie and tell her he loved her too? Send her away? Laugh in her face? She couldn't even begin to imagine a scenario that wasn't embarrassing or infuriating or both.

"Are you ready?" the leader of the elves asked. Loki turned toward her, his attention distracted from Kate. She wanted to gasp for breath, like she'd just broken the surface of a pond.

"I've spoken to Heimdall," Loki said. "I asked him to locate Fridur on Alfheim, in order to speed our efforts to aid her. I'm afraid I have bad news as well as good."

It was as if someone had lobbed an unexploded grenade into the middle of the courtyard. Kate barely stopped herself from grabbing the knife again as all the elves, inexplicably, turned tense and sent pissed-off glares in her and Loki's direction. The boss elf made a lemon face.

"Speak," she spat.

Loki paused. Kate had a moment's fleeting intuition that he was about to say something that would piss the elves off even more, then he opened his mouth again and Kate took a very firm grip on the knife.

"She's in Windkeep. In the dungeon."

The elves let out a collective hiss, all of them baring their sharky teeth at once. Loki didn't flinch at her side, but Kate found herself looking from face to face frantically, trying (and failing) to come up with some kind of plan to get both of them out of there if the elves decided to redecorate the courtyard in _sanguine red._

"The better news is that, in searching for Fridur, he found someone else as well. Or rather, several someones." Loki managed to smirk without actually smirking as he listed a bunch of elvish names. At the first name, the elves in the courtyard lost their furious expressions to looks of shock that deepened as Loki continued. Boss elf was the only exception: as she listened to Loki, her eyes got narrower and narrower, her jawline harder and harder.

"You're a liar," she said flatly when Loki finished.

"Someone is," Loki said, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure. "Today, however, it is not I."

Fury and something else warred in the boss elf's face. After a moment, the _something else_ revealed itself as a trembling chin and damp eyes. "Are they alive?" she asked, her voice low and full of fearful hope. Loki's face lost some of its smugness.

"They are alive and unharmed," he said. One of the elves whooped, and Boss Elf turned to glare at him so fast that his celebratory noise ended up sounding like "Woo-hoo _uhhh_."

She whipped back to face Loki. "Where are they?"

Loki hesitated. _Crap,_ Kate thought, reading his face, and squeezed the handle of the knife. "In the passages between the royal suites," he said, and immediately the mood was back to being murdery. Kate scanned the group and realized everyone but Loki had their hand on a weapon. Boss elf struggled to control her face.

"Asgard will answer for this," she said finally, her lips drawn back from her teeth in a snarl. Loki looked down his nose at her.

"And which Alfheim will ask Asgard to answer? The Alfheim ruled by a mad pretender, or the Alfheim restored with the aid of Asgard?" All trace of hesitation or smugness had left Loki's face. If any emotion was left, it was contempt. "You came to Asgard for aid, Lieutenant."

"I came to Asgard to find my queen," Boss Elf retorted. "And found, once again, that Asgard has Asgard's interests at heart. And a serpent in its royal halls."

Kate could almost feel the ice coming off Loki. "Perhaps once we find your queen, my brother can offer her advice on making use of royal serpents," he said. His cheeks were snow-pale with anger. "Or perhaps she can ask my parents."

Boss Elf actually lurched forward at that, only barely holding back from launching herself at Loki. From the expressions of the other elves, Kate was pretty sure that if Boss Elf had gone after Loki, the rest would have followed in a great big sharky murderpile. She reminded herself to breathe, and to kick Loki when they weren't one wrong word from an all-out blood-in-the-water massacre. Ninety percent of this was going over her head, but the other ten percent was inclining her to believe that Loki was not going out of his way to avoid provoking Boss Elf.

"I will speak with my men," Boss Elf spat. Loki delivered a mockingly graceful bow.

"Of course, Lieutenant," he said, and put a hand on Kate's elbow. "We will await your pleasure."

He turned his back to Boss Elf— _ballsy_ , Kate thought—and tugged at Kate until she turned her back _much_ more reluctantly and followed him to the archway that led into the courtyard. The elves gathered in a scrum and started hissing at each other rapidly, interspersing their argument with venomous looks at Loki.

"What the hell was that?" Kate asked under her breath.

If Loki's nose went any higher, all she'd see of his face would be the bottom of his chin. "The death of a politically useful, mutually-agreed fiction," he said. Kate stopped herself from rolling her eyes at him. Just.

"SparkNotes version, please?"

Loki tilted his head down long enough to narrow his eyes at her before resuming his chin-in-the-air posture. "In brief: Heimdall, Asgard's watchman, can see anywhere in the universe. Diplomatic custom has long been to pretend that this ability has limits when it comes to certain sensitive locations for our allies. The royal residence on Alfheim has been one of those locations."

"Anywhere?" Kate repeated, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her boobs. Loki caught the edge of panic in her voice and thawed slightly.

"He is one man," Loki said. A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. "And he finds my quarters . . . difficult to see clearly."

Kate made a face at Loki. His smile gained solidity for a moment before disappearing. Kate thought through the conversation she'd just listened to and glanced at the elves, who'd generally settled down into listening to the Boss Elf tell them something. So basically Asgard was spying on other—countries? Realms were countries, right?—and Loki had just told them that Asgard could see into what sounded like the elf White House. Or Pentagon, maybe. Kate pursed her lips and looked up at Loki.

"You could have figured out a way to tell them without officially outing the thing about being able to see into the palace, couldn't you?"

For a long few seconds, Kate thought that Loki's only acknowledgement would be through an absence of denial. Then his eyes shifted away.

"Perhaps."

He sounded smug. Kate was tempted to give him a hard poke. She wasn't a politician, but even she could guess that dropping that kind of inflammatory information wasn't going to endear Loki to the elves _or_ the Asgardians.

"So you trashed a 'politically useful fiction' because you felt like being a jerk," she said, giving Loki's words a smarmy turn when she quoted them back at him. He didn't flinch.

"I dispensed with a lie," he said. His eyes flicked to her. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to tell them that the children were still alive."

He waited, unblinking, while Kate caught up. The kids. The _royal_ kids. _Holy shit._ Her mouth dropped open. Loki's eye-flick away from her somehow managed to convey smug satisfaction.

"So—wait. What. How—" she sputtered.

"I suspect the current discussion among our allies is how to effectively divide our limited force in order to simultaneously secure the children _and_ Fridur," Loki said, cutting off her verbal flailing. His hands twitched through a nervous scale against his thigh—the first real sign of unease she'd seen in him. "Bui will order Fridur's death as soon as he becomes aware that we've entered the palace, if he hasn't ordered it already. We cannot risk searching for the children and accidentally alerting the guards. Nor can we rescue Fridur first, trusting that the children's hiding place will continue to remain safe."

Kate blinked. He didn't mean . . . "You think they'd kill the kids if they found them? Bui's guys, I mean?" Loki nodded abruptly. Kate's stomach turned. _Kids._ God. She hastily forced her thoughts into a different track. "So—why did they think the kids were dead? What have they been doing since . . . whenever?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"The royal quarters came under attack while the family was sleeping," Loki said. He glanced at Kate, then back at the elves. "It's possible that someone was warned." He shrugged like a horse twitching its flanks to discourage a fly. "It will be important to the Alfar later, no doubt. For the moment, all that matters is that they're alive."

"Asgardian!"

Kate and Loki looked up. Boss Elf and her minions were glaring at them. "Lieutenant?" Loki said, voice smooth as melted butter. Boss Elf made an abrupt come-here wave. Kate glanced at Loki. He was wearing the offensively polite non-expression she'd started to associate with moments when he was uneasy, so she risked brushing her hand against his, hiding the gesture from the elves with her body as she stepped forward. He followed her across the courtyard, and when she stopped, she felt his fingers ghost across her back beneath her armor-jacket.

"We had thought to seek out our allies on Alfheim, and with them, Fridur. Given your intelligence—" Boss Elf shot a glare at Loki "—it is clear we must act immediately instead. Our first duty is to protect our queen and the royal family. To do this without killing will require your illusion, magician."

Loki inclined his head, and a fraction of Kate's tension eased at this sign that Loki wasn't going to be a difficult ass all the time. _Just when he feels like screwing over his family,_ she thought sourly, then gave herself a mental shake and made herself listen to the Boss Elf as she delivered crisp, military instructions.

The general plan was simple: teleport in close to the castle, have Loki disguise them as friendlies to get through the gates, then neutralize the guards. At that point, they'd split up, with one group going to the dungeons to bust out Fridur, while the other group found the kids and got them out of Dodge. After everyone was safe—or as safe as they could get, in the middle of a war—they'd talk to Fridur about how she wanted to go about getting her throne back.

Kate and Loki would be in the party that went after the kids. Boss Elf  looked like this decision had been about as welcome as a bout of explosive diarrhea. Loki, somehow, managed to look bored.

"Two of my warriors who've served in the household guard will go with you," Boss Elf said. She paused, then took out a knife and unwrapped the scarf covering her hair. Her soldiers made scandalized noises until she glared at them. When they were silent, she cut a few inches of fabric from one end of the scarf. Then, taking care not to undo the style, she teased a lock of hair loose from the knot at the nape of her neck, and cut it free with a quick motion. The elves gasped, and Loki tensed. Boss Elf sheathed her knife, looped the hair, tied it with the scarf, then handed it to one of her soldiers, whose expression suggested she was being given something that was part Hope Diamond, part hand grenade.

"Once you've found them and removed them from the castle grounds, signal us," Boss Elf said, re-wrapping her hair briskly. Her followers still looked shell-shocked. "We shall move on the dungeons and free our queen."

"What signal?" Loki asked. Boss Elf finished arranging her hair and gave him a flat _fuck-you_ look.

"I'm sure you'll think of something, Asgardian." She turned her back to him. "Weapons check!"

While the elves shook off their surprise by going through what was obviously some kind of pre-battle routine, Kate turned to Loki. "What was the thing with the hair?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

"Elves don't cut their hair," he said, and looked down at Kate. " _Ever._ "

"What, like Sikhs?" she asked. Loki frowned.

"They believe that mutilating the body given to them by the gods is a sin."

"Yeah, so . . . Sikhs," Kate said, raising an eyebrow. Loki gave her an odd look, then turned his attention back to the elves. He watched them intently, his lips pursing; assessing, she thought. She wanted to touch him for reassurance—part hers, part his—but she didn't. She wouldn't make either of them look weak in front of the elves.

It struck her like a lightning bolt as she stood there, thinking. Loki and Thor and Fridur and Boss Elf and the elf-kids and Loki's weirdness in the castle: it was about love. _Affection_ , her brain corrected her, skittering away from the L-word; affection for others was dangerous in a world like this, because it made you vulnerable to blackmail and hostage-taking. For a ruler, being open about liking someone was like putting a target on their back.

Loki had gotten weird after she told Thor that part of the reason she was going on this trip to Elfland was because she wanted to have Loki's back. Loki had freaked because she'd openly talked to Thor—who, let's face it, didn't always put his brother's interests first—about liking him. And he would only have gotten upset if he really did like her, she reasoned; otherwise, he would have been fine with letting Thor think he liked Kate enough to be worried about Thor potentially using her against him in the future. Unless he was just pretending to be upset so he could better sell the idea that he liked her, thereby planting a false idea in Thor's head—

She was spending too much time with scheming aliens.

"What are you thinking about so intently, little one?" Loki asked, his voice warm. Amusement softened the hard lines of his face and brightened his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.

"You," she said. Some emotion she couldn't name flickered in his eyes, and the relaxed pleasure in his face disappeared.

"Oh?"

She hadn't meant to squash his little bit of happiness. She swallowed.

"Don't let anyone use me against you. If it ever comes to that." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "I won't be your weakness."

His green eyes turned stormy. Before he could speak, though, Boss Elf called to them.

"Asgardian! Bring your pet. It's time to go."

Loki lifted his head, but didn't look away from Kate. "She's not my pet," he said, voice low, then turned toward the elves. They'd gathered in a circle.

"Last chance," he said. She rolled her fingers into fists instead of taking his hand. Her heart raced. This was dumb. This was so dumb.

"Nah," she said. "Let's go kick some ass."


	50. Chapter 50

The plan was simple. Its execution wasn't.

First, they landed in the middle of a group of Alfar soldiers who, though they clearly were not expecting anyone, were eager to fight once they recognized Vidblainn and her guard. The brief battle cost them time and one of Vidblainn's women, and spoke discouragingly of the possibility that Bui was more prepared for their arrival than they'd anticipated. The benefit, however, was a group of living models for Loki to base his illusion on: though he could be creative when required, the faces of the captured Alfar lent verisimilitude to the pantomime they then carried out before Windkeep's gates. Vidblainn couldn't be their fake prisoner—word would have flown entirely too quickly to Bui—so Loki wrapped Kate in magic and set her in the center of their heavily-armed group. Once inside the gates, Vidblainn's warriors broke character, subdued the guards in the gatehouse and barracks, locked them into their own domiciles, and proceeded to secure the main entrance. With their exit prepared, Kate, Loki, and the Alfar warrior to whom Vidblainn had entrusted her hair-token set off into the castle.

Whereupon they discovered the extent of the damage from the Chitauri attacks: a whole wing collapsed; broken masonry, paneling, and glass swept into piles in the halls; smoke damage and bloodstains on the walls, especially as they approached the royal quarters. "It's too empty," the Alfar whispered as they climbed servants' stairs, wary of the cracks in the stone. "There should be more people—more servants, more soldiers, more officers of the court—"

"Maybe they evacuated?" Kate said. "I mean—this place doesn't really seem safe any more . . ."

"More reason to have greater numbers here," the Alfar hissed. "This is our heart! There should be life here, but it feels—"

"Dead." Loki corrected himself when the Alfar glared back at him: " _Dying._ In any case, I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself. We're nearing—"

"I know what we're nearing," she snapped at him. "This is _my_ home, Asgardian."

Kate looked over her shoulder at him warningly, and Loki swallowed his retort. Her mouth twitched into half a smile at his silence before she turned her attention back to following the Alfar up the curving stairs. Loki paused to check behind them before continuing after her.

She'd kept up well enough, for a mortal with no training. Of course, to this point, all that had been required of her was to keep pace with the Alfar, look stoic when needed, and avoid stepping in front of a weapon; hardly a challenge.

Still. _I won't be your weakness,_ she'd said back on Asgard; and she hadn't been. Not yet.

Kate and the Alfar froze, Kate lifting a pink palm in unnecessary warning. Loki stilled, listening for trouble. Windkeep was an old fortress; the walls were thick stone, carved out of the side of the mountain in places. The innermost rooms were as silent as graves, but the servants' corridors—like this one—had been built to carry sound from floor to floor and passageway to passageway _without_ transmitting it out of the servants' ways.

In other words, Windkeep was an eavesdropper's paradise.

"—told you this was _not_ what I bargained for," a man was saying. His voice was thin and distorted by echoes, but even a castle's worth of distortion couldn't hide the barely-controlled anger and fear in his voice. "My people are dying—"

"You can give me the stone, or I can tear this castle apart and crush the rubble into sand," a deep voice rumbled. "That is the bargain we speak of now, Alfar."

Loki couldn't move. _No._ It wasn't. It couldn't be—

He looked up at Kate despite himself, and saw his desperate need to be proven wrong in her eyes as well. _Thanos_ , she mouthed, and Loki shuddered.

How? How could he possibly be here?

"Your Chitauri have died in the thousands on the blades of my Alfar! Do you _truly_ believe you can take anything I don't wish you to have?"

"Do you truly believe they are _your_ Alfar, little king? That they don't long for the king and queen you buried? That if they knew you had locked their true queen in the silent cells beneath the castle, they would not rise up in shouting revolt against you?"

Someone screamed and there was a large crash, followed by a series of smaller crashes, as if a laden table had been tipped over—or thrown. "Get off my planet!"

Thanos laughed that awful, deep, killing laugh, and more crashes followed before a scream of rage echoed down the stairs. Quiet fell; then came voices, too low to be understood.

Loki rose from his haunches and flowed up the spiraling stairs, past Kate and their Alfar companion, up and up and up with soft steps until the voices became comprehensible.

"—the watch. All of them. I don't care about the rebels; let them burn the damned city. Double—no, triple the guards on the armory."

"The armory, my king?"

Something crashed. "Do not question me!"

"I'm sorry—"

"Recall them! Now!"

"Yes, my king—"

Loki knelt on the stairs, listening, as Bui threw a tantrum—and much of the contents of the royal receiving room, it sounded like. He closed his eyes, calling up his memories of the castle's layout. Unlike Asgard, the public rooms of the castle were higher than the family quarters; though it was nearly impossible to tell how far above Bui actually was, he could guess that it wasn't more than the equivalent of two or three floors, perhaps less.

Bui was alone now, cursing with a filthier vocabulary than Loki had credited him. Loki could picture him, pacing, manic: the young man he'd met years ago wearing his father's ill-fitting robes, wild-eyed with fear. He would be alone for at least a few moments more; Loki could climb the remaining stairs, slip into the receiving room, and ask him what devil's bargain he'd made with Thanos.

He hoped it was unlike his own, and feared it was.

A small hand squeezed his ankle, then released. He opened his eyes. Kate crouched two steps below him, body poised to withdraw if he . . . what? Lashed out blindly?

"We have a job," she said, her voice barely audible. Half-hidden by the curve of the stairs, their Alfar guide watched them suspiciously. Loki looked at Kate. He could confront Bui himself; send Kate and the Alfar to find the children and lead them out. Kate looked up at him, her brown eyes nearly black in the dim light, dark and understanding. She, of all people, knew how important it was to stop Thanos; she, of all people, would accept a change in plan. She'd halfway talked the Alfar into liking her, she could get the woman to come with her and leave Loki to face Bui.

And then what? He had no problem killing for Asgard; he'd done it before. In this case, though, it was likely to inflame an already-troublesome relationship between Asgard and Alfheim. Simply leaving Bui alive wouldn't be an option; the man might be going mad from the sound of things, but he wasn't a fool, he'd send more guards to the dungeons.

And going after Bui would mean leaving Kate.

_This only works if we stick together._

He rose, but only to a crouch, and only to wait. Kate read his movement—her gaze lingering on him a moment longer than necessary—then turned and glided down the stairs as quietly as she'd climbed them. A half-dozen steps down, the Alfar waited; when she saw them coming, she touched the stone wall in a complicated sequence, and recessed door slid open.

Ancient castle, modern technology.

Through the doorway was a room large enough for five or six people, if they were good at avoiding each other's toes. The Alfar ignored the second door—leading, one presumed, out of the servants' passages and into the royal quarters—in favor of a blank patch of wall; she traced a simpler sequence, lower on the wall, and waited. _Child-height_ , Loki thought, and watched a panel slide back.

Instead of entering immediately, the Alfar crouched. "Little ones," she said softly. "It's Brana. I bring with me two allies—Loki of Asgard, and Kate of Midgard." She took out the silk-wrapped lock of hair that Vidblainn had given her. "Your mother Vidblainn bid me come for you. This token is hers; her hair and her scarf, given in grief and hope at your return." She leaned forward; supporting her weight with one hand, she stretched out the other and placed it in the passageway, as far inside as she could get it without moving her feet. "Your mother Fridur is in the dungeon; we have come to free her, and to take all of you to a safe place, away from here." She settled back onto her heels. "I'm closing the door, now. Talk among yourselves. If you will come with us, gather everyone and open the door again. If you would stay, then stay. We will wait, and guard the door."

Before Loki could ask if the Alfar actually meant what she said about waiting, she reached for the wall and sent the door sliding shut again.

"Is there . . . an adult with them?" Kate asked, confused. The Alfar looked up.

"I do not know," she said. She balanced her elbows on her knees, as if she expected to wait. "It would be helpful; some of the children are quite young. We may need to carry the smallest."

Kate glanced at Loki, then back at the Alfar. "We're waiting for kids to make up their minds. And Fridur and the others are waiting for us. While Bui orders all the guards back to the castle." She raised her brows. "Is that right?"

"Yes," the Alfar said, starting to sound puzzled. "This is the plan. Not . . . Bui, but the rest of it."

"The plan is to wait for a bunch of kids to make up their minds?"

"They have observed us. They have observed recent events in the castle. They are capable of deciding whether it is safe to join us, and they are both best-positioned to make that decision, and the ones who will benefit or suffer from that decision the most," the Alfar said, her voice rising and sharpening. Kate raised her hands, reacting to the hostility in her voice.

"Different cultural tradition," she said. "Mostly people treat kids like idiots where I'm from." She paused and dropped her hands. "Don't know if this is better, but it's refreshing."

She dropped into a squat, mirroring the Alfar, and looked up at Loki, humor in her face. Loki smiled back instinctively, just as the door slid open.

"Loki!" an Alfar child said, and barreled through the door and around the Alfar in order to wrap its arms around his leg. Startled, he looked down.

"Rolf?" he said, cautiously. The child looked up at him and gave him an adorable, gap-toothed grin. Well—it would have been adorable, if the missing teeth hadn't been knife-shaped.

"Did you bring Thor?"

"Not this time," he said, bracing himself to see disappointment in the child's eyes.

"Can you ride me on your shoulders?"

Not a bit of disappointment. Just wide-eyed expectation.

"Rolf! Loki cannot fight with you on his shoulders. Come here," another Alfar child—this one a little older—snapped, before holding out her hand.

"Yes, he can," Rolf said dismissively, as if it was the height of dullness to think the opposite; nevertheless, he ran back to the doorway, joining a gaggle of Alfar children. The one who had spoken looked the oldest; Kirdi, he thought, the name swimming up out of some long-ago introduction. She carried a babe in a sling across her body, and a knapsack on her back. Her eyes were set in deep hollows.

"Kirdi," Loki said, and bowed. The young woman looked startled for a moment, then bowed back, her face returning to seriousness.

"Loki. We didn't expect you." The young woman glanced down at Kate and the Alfar. "Brana. Are my mothers well?"

"Vidblainn is well," she said, rising. Kate followed her example cautiously. "I cannot speak of Fridur, but the last I knew, she was alive. Vidblainn ordered us to make you safe; then she will free Fridur."

"Then let us move quickly," Kirdi said. "Alfar! Bigs, look after the littles. Speak if you're tired; otherwise, eyes open, mouth shut. Clear?"

A chorus of yeses answered her from the upturned faces of the children surrounding her. There were ten, counting both Kirdi and the babe she carried; Loki searched his memories, frowning, in search of the reason behind his instinct that there should have been more.

"Hogni?" he asked, and immediately regretted the question when the children's faces turned solemn.

"He's dead," Kirdi said, her shoulders stiff. Her eyes were dark with anger, but her voice was controlled as she looked down at her siblings. "We honor his death by living. As we honor the rest of our family."

Some of the children nodded back at her, damp-eyed; two of the older ones didn't argue, but returned her look with stubborn jaws and folded arms. Loki caught a flicker of something—admonition? promise? —between Kirdi and the two belligerents, and after a moment, they stopped looking and started tending to their younger siblings, checking to make sure that bootlaces were tied, knapsack flaps were secured, and braids were coiled—no small concern, as even the youngest had long, uncovered hair.

"So," Kate said softly, and rolled her eyes to meet his when he turned his head toward her. "You were in a better position to hear than I was. Did that sound like Thanos was threatening to send the Chitauri here, and Bui was calling all his soldiers back?"

Kirdi shot a sharp look in their direction, but didn't speak; Brana watched them as she helped ready the smaller children. Loki glanced at the close-packed room, then looked down at Kate. Her face didn't reveal her thoughts.

"What are you thinking, little one?"

"I'm thinking that if this place is going to be surrounded by Chitauri soon, then either we should move fast as fu—freaking possible, or we should get the kids back into the panic room," she said, her voice low.

Her words kicked loose the gears of Loki's mind. _The Chitauri were coming._ Fast or slow, Loki couldn't be certain; but they were coming for something in the armory, and Thanos had made it clear he didn't plan on stopping until he retrieved it.

The armory wasn't in the center of the castle, but it was close. And if Thanos wasn't planning on coming straight through the mountain, or down from the skies, then the Chitauri would plow through the city at Windkeep's feet.

_You are the rightful queen of Alfheim, freed from the dungeons and told this information: what do you do?_ Loki asked himself. The answer didn't take long.

Kirdi was watching him.

"Can you walk the path of the stars?" he asked. Brana straightened, alarmed. Kirdi didn't flinch.

"I know how. I haven't tried."

Loki shifted his gaze to Brana, whose eyes were darkening as she listened.

"I can walk it. What do you mean by this, Asgardian?" she asked.

"I mean that there is a battle coming, and Fridur and Vidblainn would be better prepared to fight it if they knew their family was far away, somewhere safe," Loki said. The children had stopped talking and were looking back and forth between him and the Alfar warrior. Her hands were in fists, and there was a tension in her body that spoke of readiness to leap on Loki. Kirdi, meanwhile, had gone cool and quiet, standing with a stillness that did not hide her sharp attention.

"Speak, Asgardian," she said. "Why do you believe a battle is coming?"

Brana had treated Kirdi as if she was an adult; Loki followed her example, and explained what he'd overheard without softening his words. "What do you propose?" she said when Loki finished, and listened, unflinching, while he spoke. She stared at him for a long, long moment after he stopped speaking, then swallowed.

"We'll go." Some of the children immediately protested; all she did was glare and repeat herself, and they were silenced. The Alfar girl shifted the weight of the child she carried, and looked to Loki. "Tell our mothers we're alive. Tell them we love them."

"We will," Kate said. Loki inhaled. Though he hadn't said it, he'd meant for Kate to go with the Alfar back to Asgard. Kate sent him a sharp look; then she smiled: a bright, brilliant smile that lit up her whole face and distracted him completely. "We'll take care of your moms. Promise."

The Alfar girl regarded her warily, but nodded in acknowledgement. After that, there was a surprisingly brief period of chaos before they were descending the stairs, Loki in the lead with Kirdi behind him and Kate and Brana shepherding the children in-between. The spiraling staircase led to an underground storage room where another secret passage waited to take them outside the castle—where Kirdi and Brana and the children could safely transport themselves to Asgard. Kate and Loki watched them file into the dim tunnel. Loki reached for the door and stopped. He opened his mouth to tell her that she could still go with the children, that she could be useful there without risking herself, but before he could speak, she reached across him and pushed the door shut. It closed with a click and locked.

"You and me," she said, looking up at him, then grabbed the collar of his coat and pulled him down into a rough kiss. When she let him go, they were both breathless. "For luck," she said.

"Is that what you're calling it?" Loki said. She blushed, her skin glowing. He traced the heat of her cheek, then kissed her forehead. "Come on. We have promises to keep."

"And miles to go before we sleep," she said, and memory jolted Loki: Kate's voice whispering in his ear on Midgard, only hours after they had traded bodies. He'd barely known her, and now—

She looked up at him, smiling, and Loki let himself think it, finally: _I love her._

She laced her fingers with his, then tugged. "Come on. You wanna save the world, or what?"

He smiled at her.

For once, he thought he rather did.


	51. Chapter 51

_Earlier:_

Fridur touched her lip, winced, and checked her fingers. Blood smeared her fingertips. _Well, that could have gone better._

The last guard—the one who'd punched her instead of clubbing her—lingered, looking guilty and torn as the bootsteps of the others receded. She waved her fingers at him, a quick _don't-worry-about-it_ fling, and he left reluctantly. The noise of their departure faded surprisingly fast, leaving her in near-silence.

The silence was a feature of the dungeons she'd known since she'd first visited them, but she hadn't understood the full implications of the design until her father had locked her in a cell for a night. At first, she'd thought the silence restful; even with her own rooms—one of the privileges of being heir—she spent more time than not surrounded by the children of the court, who were raucous at their best-behaved. Then she'd started to feel lonely. It wasn't until she was hoarse from singing to herself that she'd started thinking that no one was going to come for her—that she'd been forgotten, left behind, that "learning what it was like to be a prisoner" had just been a trick to get her to walk into a cell willingly so that her family could pretend she never existed and make Bui the heir . . .

In the morning, when the door to the cell had opened, she'd appeared calm and unruffled; she'd joked with the guards and her father as they walked up, up, up the spiraling ramp that led to the surface, to freedom. Inside, though, she'd carried a seed of fear and rage that grew roots into her heart. She hid her nightmares for days, until finally she'd snapped at Bui over nothing while her father was listening. That night her mother and father had visited her in her bedroom.

"This is what we wanted you to learn," her father had explained, sorrow in his eyes for the pain he'd inflicted on her. "Imprisonment—even for a short time—can be as cruel a punishment as torture or death. My dear one, when you rule, you will be the agent of justice for our people. Those who hurt them, hurt you; and their vengeance shall be your duty. Remember that we are all creatures of community, the high and the low; we draw strength and comfort from each other, and to cut any one of us from the body of our people is as injurious as losing a hand or a foot. Remember this when you judge a killer; remember this when you sentence a thief. Punishment that exceeds the severity of the crime is a new injury to the body of the people, and you will make yourself a wrongdoer if you allow it."

She threaded her fingers through the lattice that separated the cell from the dungeon and closed her eyes. "Oh, Father," she said softly, and her voice didn't echo; it was swallowed up by the walls. "I would I had your guidance now."

"My lady Fridur."

She opened her eyes. A familiar face stood before her cell, an unfamiliar look of worry on his handsome face.

"Arfrost," she greeted him, and smiled. "I'm glad to see you alive."

"And I, you; though I could wish my unworthy life exchanged for others whose absence sorrows both our hearts." His blue eyes held honest pain. "My lady, I am so very sorry for your loss."

She let him see her grief for a moment, because regardless of the turns of fate that had put her on this side of the bars and him on the other side, she trusted Arfrost. He was a good man, a conscientious man, and she would not lie to him in word or deed. Then she gathered herself up: lifted her tear-streaked cheeks without wiping them, straightened her shoulders, uncurled her fingers from the lattice. He came to attention.

"I thank you for your words, Arfrost. But I think you have a message for me from my brother, the—king."

The line of his jaw sharpened as his teeth clenched. He didn't want to deliver this message. That could mean many things, but Fridur was beyond self-delusion: the words Arfrost spoke were unwelcome, but not unsurprising.

"My lord the king, Bui Dothisson, defender of the realm, guardian of the people, having considered the attested statements of several witnesses as well as the evidence of his eyes, does declare you, Fridur Dothisdotter, traitor to the people and the throne of Alfheim, for willful and knowing defiance of the lawful orders of the king, for violent resistance against his agents, and for inciting riot among his lawful subjects." Arfrost took a deep breath. His voice didn't waver as he continued. "For these crimes, you, Fridur Dothisdotter, are condemned to immediate death. The titles and honors you have disgraced are stripped from you; you will die upon the walls of the castle, where your body shall remain as a lesson."

For a second, the formality of the words and the complexity of their delivery let Arfrost simply say them without thinking about them. Fridur knew the moment that the message Arfrost had been sent to deliver finally became real to him: it was as if some essential force shriveled within him, pulling the flesh of his face hard against his bones. The horror of the moment lived in his eyes, and she wished she could take it away from him, this pain, this responsibility. Instead, she nodded.

"I understand."

Horror changed to pleading. _Tell me it's all a mistake,_ his eyes begged. _Tell me something that I can take back to Bui, some magic phrase to make this death sentence disappear._ He leaned forward, his desperate urge to stave off her death pulling him closer. She smiled at him, this man who'd watched her grow up, who'd been part of her father's court since he was little more than a child, who loved order and law and yet would take any excuse to deny his duty now. She looked at him and thought, _Thanos's victims are not only the dead and the wounded, but people like Arfrost—caught between conscience and duty, with nothing but scars on their soul to look forward to._

If, by some caprice of fate, she escaped execution, then she would make sure Thanos paid for them. For all of them.

"When is the sentence to be carried out?"

"Tomorrow," Arfrost said. "An hour after dawn."

She wished she was a priest, that she could absolve him of the sin he so clearly felt he was carrying. But she wasn't a priest. Fridur thought of her father and mother. _No,_ she thought. _I am a queen._

"Arfrost."

He straightened at the command in her voice. "My lady."

She smiled. She didn't deserve the honorific any more, by Arfrost's own message; but she didn't correct him. "Serve our kingdom as loyally as you served my father. Protect our people. Seek justice for all, but temper it with mercy." She paused, and gave her voice more force, but no less warmth. " _Live well and long._ " He flinched and caught himself, his eyes glistening as he struggled to meet her gaze. "These charges I lay upon you, in the eyes of the gods and the honored dead."

"I accept," he said immediately. If he stood any straighter, he would have separated the bones of his spine. "My queen."

She smiled wryly at that. He didn't smile back. "The gods bless and keep you," she said, and added, "Go. Before you commit more treason."

"May the gods protect and preserve you," he said, something hot and angry growing in his eyes. "And burn the bones of your enemies in everlasting fire."

Her smile curled into something darker. Arfrost bowed once, shallowly, the gesture made graceless by emotion, then turned on his heel and walked away. Part of Fridur hoped he would keep his head down, follow Bui's orders, and stay safe. Part of her hoped that walk was the beginning of the kind of swift and subtle destruction that could only be carried out by someone who knew the inner workings of the court like Arfrost did. A rebellion from inside Windkeep.

Fridur had never sought war, civil or otherwise. But that didn't mean she wouldn't fight one if it came to her.

When she had returned to Alfheim, Thanos's taunt about betrayal ringing in her ears, she had told herself that it was a distraction. Thanos was a master manipulator; the fragment of his consciousness that had somehow lodged in Kate's mind had skimmed Fridur's thoughts for weaknesses and seized on her deep-buried worries about her brother. It was a cheap trick to lure her away from the mortal so that he could continue tormenting her, and Fridur had felt guilty, even as she departed, for abandoning Kate to the Titan's mind games.

But it had not been a trick. She had arrived on Alfheim to find her half-formed fears were hopeful fantasies, a child's conception of what _worst-case scenario_ could mean. She had a breath to grieve her family—mother, father, friends, children, cousins and nephews and nieces—before she was dodging her own soldiers, whose eagerness to carry out her brother's order to capture her ranged from reluctance-bordering-on-refusal to giddy anticipation.

That had been a shock; perhaps a greater shock, in the moment, than learning of her family's deaths. Some of her people— _her people_ —were willing to believe that she no longer deserved the throne; that her departure to help Thor was irresponsible or even treasonous; that _she_ had orchestrated the attack on Windkeep in an impatient bid to take the throne and eliminate the other heirs, no matter how distant they were in the succession.

_If I ever take the throne, I will remember this,_ she had told herself. _Love lives in the open. Hate hides its face._ _Not even the best king is universally welcomed._

She had hidden among the people who loved her, the people who had heard Bui's order to capture her and looked at each other in dismay. As word spread that she had returned to Alfheim, they'd come to her: warriors and lieutenants, smiths and shepherds, all of them ready to take up arms against their own neighbors for love of her and Alfheim. They brought her rumors of Bui, pacing the ruined battlements and smoke-stained rooms of Windkeep, swearing at the stars; they brought her plans to take the castle. _Wait,_ she'd told them. _Wait, and let me find some way of speaking to him. Let us end this without blood._

But wars are never as controlled or as organized as the histories describe them when they're over. Civil war is mother casting out daughter for her support of an upstart queen; civil war is a fistfight between men who've shared the same neighboring pub-stools for a decade; civil war is arson-flame licking thatch-roof over ancient grudge given new life for reasons only distantly related to succession arguments in the capital, a day's ride and a lifetime's meaning away. Sparks of war launched themselves with Fridur's return, and she was powerless to stop them from landing in tinder.

Meanwhile, the Chitauri sallied anew from the Sasoria Kiva. When they struck the capital, turning their cannons on warrior and worker alike, Fridur had called her allies together. "We will not hide while Alfar die," she had said, and led them into the streets.

Fridur had fought on distant planets, and on the edges of Alfheim, the sparsely-populated plains and forest-borders where few lived. It was a different kind of hell to fight in the city she had grown up with, on the streets she walked, beside ale-shops and weavers and tiny pleasant homes. She saw cannon blasts start a fire in a sweet-shop she'd visited as a child, and between blows, she had watched, helpless, as it burned.

They drove the Chitauri back, Fridur's rebels and Bui's soldiers and ordinary Alfar hurling stones and setting traps and carrying each other out of danger. She was so proud of her people—so damned proud of their courage and their love of each other and their determination. A day and a night and a day into the fighting, a cleansing rain washed the smoke from their air and revealed streets empty of living Chitauri, and Fridur looked at the Alfar beside her. _They deserve better than this,_ she thought, and began making plans.

Plans that ended here.

She settled on the floor of the cell and crossed her legs, back to the wall. The embroidered peacocks perched on the bottom hem of her tunic ended up in her lap, and she tugged at one, rueful. Somehow, drawing on some witchcraft or presentiment, one of her followers had presented it to her after she'd announced she would approach Bui alone. The handiwork was gorgeous and complex, the glittering royal birds taking up nearly half the garment; if the man had not been unknown to her, she would have assumed he was one of the royal tailors, bringing her something from his workshop. But no. He and his assistants had sewn it, somehow, in the four days since she'd returned. It was a garment fit for a queen, and no one would ever see it: she'd gone from Windkeep's gates to this cell without passing more than handful of familiar faces.

_A reminder_ , she thought. _If I never sit on the throne, I can still die like a queen. I can still be my mother's daughter. The people deserve that, if nothing else._

The silence made it difficult to track the passage of time. Perhaps it was only moments—long, awful moments—or perhaps it was hours before the silence broke with fast boot-steps. Fridur looked up, gaze sharpening. Either the guards Bui sent to take her to her death were in a hurry, or . . .

It wasn't Bui's guards who came for her.

Fridur rose in a single smooth motion, eyes fixed on the woman on the other side of the bars; the woman she had thought dead. "Best beloved," she breathed, and any queenly dignity she had managed to draw around herself in preparation for her death disappeared. One of Vidblainn's soldiers opened the door, and Fridur's consort lunged through the opening and into Fridur's arms.

"My lady," she sobbed. Fridur hugged her until Vidblainn's armor creaked, burying her face in the sweet perfume of Vidblainn's scarf-wrapped hair.

"My darling, my life, my love," Fridur said, and loosened her grip so she could look Vidblainn in the face. "Beloved," she said, and lost her courage. But the pale-blue eyes that had first caught Fridur's attention were bright with something like joy.

"My lady, our children are alive," she said, her voice low and fierce, and Fridur stared at her, because she thought Vidblainn had said _their children were alive._ "They are alive, beloved—Kirdi woke the night of the attack and led them to the servants' passages, then the spy-rooms. She destroyed the nursery to hide their absence and _they are alive_."

A sound like an animal cry split the air, and Fridur didn't realize until Vidblainn cupped her face in her hands that she had made the noise herself. She closed her eyes and let her consort hold her close and whisper reassurance, because _her children._ Her children were _alive._ She wrapped her hand around the back of Vidblainn's head, because she needed its heavy delicate solidity, she needed the silk of Vidblainn's scarf and the softness of her braided hair beneath it.

"They walk the stars to Asgard," Vidblainn whispered. "They will be safe there with our allies, until we return."

_Asgard. Allies_. Fridur-the-woman memorized the feeling of Vidblainn in her arms, the smell of her hair, the sound of her breath, then stepped back so that Fridur-the-warrior could speak to her second-in-command, letting her hands slide to Vidblainn's shoulders.

"Report."

"The Chitauri are coming," she said, her face gone solemn. "Bui has ordered the guard to the walls. We have a limited window to leave Windkeep before the castle is surrounded by Chitauri, but if we move quickly, we should be able to avoid harming any of the guard on our way out."

Run. Run and leave her people behind to be savaged by invaders.

_Run, and see your children again._ _Kiss their unwashed hair, cradle their warm bodies, listen to their voices crying mama, mama, mama._

The strings of her heart pulled hard and painfully; but pain was something she'd learned to suffer gratefully, long ago.

"We will not abandon our people," she said, and there was relief and agony both in Vidblainn's face, and Fridur knew their causes were the same as her own. Fridur took a deep breath and let her consort go, then looked over the faces of the soldiers she had brought. Only seven, herself and Vidblainn included; not enough to turn the tide.

Unlike the army she'd left behind in the city.

One of the soldiers handed a belted sword to Vidblainn. She dropped to one knee, and raised up the weapon with both hands as the rest of her warriors knelt behind her.

"Lead us to a good death, my queen."

They looked at her, and on their faces—young and old, unscarred and war-beaten, of all genders—she saw determination and fear and anger and hope. Fridur met each warrior's eyes before dropping her gaze to Vidblainn. Her consort watched her, unblinking, as Fridur placed her hand on the leather-sheathed blade, then turned her face upward.

"See me, gods of the people; see me, ancestors. I am Fridur Dothisdotter, born of Alfheim, and I pledge myself to these Alfar, blood and bone, breath and soul, from this moment to the ending of the world.  He who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; she who bares her steel with me shall be my sister. See me, gods of the people, and strike me down if I blaspheme; welcome us, ancestors, to the halls of the righteous dead. Let it be so."

"Let it be so," her soldiers repeated.

"Rise," Fridur said, and her army rose. She looked at them, then at Vidblainn.

"We need more," she said bluntly. "Dispatch them to the city. I've raised forces; we will call them to our defense." She listed a half-dozen safehouses and meeting points, and Vidblainn stood steady, her eyes calm, as the warriors behind her shifted their weight and ran nervous hands over their weapons. Fridur fixed her eyes on them, and they froze. "One of you will sound the alarm through the castle. Those without training should flee to the city, or take refuge in the deepest subbasements. We have had enough death."

She took her sword from Vidblainn and looped the belt around her waist. "And you, my lady?" Vidblainn asked.

"It's time I spoke to my brother," she said. She cinched the belt tight, over her bright embroidered shirt, then looked at Vidblainn. Her consort's eyes were full of dark satisfaction. She stepped toward the door of the cell, her warriors moving out of her way, Vidblainn falling into place at Fridur's shoulder.

"My lady, we also brought allies—" she began as Fridur stepped out of the cell, but she was interrupted by Fridur's startled, delighted laugh as she caught sight of the pair waiting for her outside.

"Little one!" she exclaimed, and the grinning Midgardian stepped forward, arms open. Fridur hugged Kate hard, then pushed her back to look at her. The shadows had left her eyes, and the odd clothing she wore was—on closer inspection—clever, lightweight armor. A familiar knife was strapped to her thigh.

"Heard you were having an ass-kicking party," she said. "Hope you don't mind if Loki and I crash."

Fridur wasn't sure what Kate was trying to say, but she was saying it happily, and Loki was standing behind her with a raised eyebrow and a hint of a smile. Fridur squeezed her shoulder and let her go, then nodded at Loki, who nodded back.

"Indeed, you are a most welcome sight, both of you," she said.

"They went to find and secure our children," Vidblainn said softly, and Fridur's heart skipped.

"They're fine," Kate said immediately, catching sight of her expression. "Everybody's good. They're all looking out for each other. Kirdi's gonna be a serious badass when she grows up."

Fridur nodded, throat too thick to speak at the sound of her niece's name, alive on another's tongue. Loki leaned forward.

"My lady, it would be our pleasure to accompany you when you speak to your brother," he said. Kate's face hardened at his words, and she nodded. There was a story there; but it could wait until they were moving. Fridur nodded sharply and turned to face her warriors.

"Our enemy is the Chitauri," she said. "Not our brothers and sisters. Remember that." She paused, looking from face to face. "Gods preserve you."

"And you, Lady," one of them said, and almost immediately there was a shout—"Gods save the queen!"—that the others repeated, sharp teeth flashing, until she held up her hand. Her heart filled her chest, leaving space for only one word:

"Go."


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: canon-typical violence.

_I am never having babies_ , Kate thought.

So, yes, she would never have babies with pointy teeth (unless she had sex with an elf? Was it possible to have kids with an elf? Jesus, [Scarleteen](http://www.scarleteen.com/) did not even begin to cover this shit) but still, kids with pointy teeth—no matter how cute they acted around Loki—were fucking terrifying.

Elf warriors speechifying like they were in a Shakespearian history play weren't terrifying; more like . . . confusing as hell and maybe possibly just a bit pompous-sounding (not that she'd ever say that to Fridur's face). So she was relieved when Fridur's commandos took off, leaving just her and Loki and Fridur and Vidblainn, even if the commandos' departure meant that they weren't getting out, but instead going deeper into the castle to confront the dude who'd been screaming at Thanos like a teenager yelling at his mom to get out of his room. At least, she hoped it'd just be that dude, and not Thanos himself. She was not ready to throw down with Thanos.

Who was she kidding? She wasn't ready to throw down with _anyone_ unless the context was a Mario Kart battle.

 _You've got your big girl panties on,_ Kate reminded herself. _No freaking out._ She might be able to get through this weird-ass David Bowie space castle without fighting anyone _._ If not . . . well, she'd asked to tag along, hadn't she?

Her half-hopeful, half-panicked self-talk carried her through the spiraling dungeon (who built a dungeon in a spiral? Really?) and through the open public spaces of the castle, which were filled with foresty motifs—seriously, she thought the support columns holding up the vaulted ceilings were white tree trunks until she brushed a hand against one. Fractal patterns filled the space between the ribs of the vaults, while the floor alternated between stone-carved-with-root-patterns and moss-green carpet with a very, very short nap. (Possibly it actually _was_ moss? But it didn't smell like moss, and it wasn't squishy like moss, so probably not.)

She managed to distract herself with architectural minutiae until they climbed a set of sweeping stairs carved with grooves like rushing water and arrived in a kind of grand reception hall that ended in big alabaster doors—not unlike Asgard. _Not terribly accessible,_ she thought of the stairs, frowning, before she registered that there were elves in armor approaching them and they did _not_ appear as willing to look the other way as the various elves who'd stared wide-eyed at them before getting out of their way as they went through the castle.

Loki touched her arm with just his fingertips, holding her back, while Fridur and Vidblainn—who'd taken the lead earlier—moved ahead, Fridur in her kameez-style peacock tunic, Vidblainn at her elbow in her blue scale armor. There was a definite sense of _don't start none, won't be none_ in their swagger as they approached the guards, but their targets didn't look impressed. "Alfar," Fridur said, her voice ringing with command. Kate was bracing herself for a new round of speechifying when Vidblainn stepped sideways, flicked a collapsible staff out to its full six-foot length, then swept the two guards' feet out from under them. Fridur drew her sword and held the point to a guard's throat while Vidblainn did the same with her staff and the other guard. "Submit or die."

"Badass," Kate whispered reverently. Loki turned his head toward her. Her cheeks heated. She hadn't meant to say that loud enough for anyone to hear.

"Loki. Your assistance would be welcome," Vidblainn called. Loki swept forward like a crow making a lazy pass over a field; Kate followed, catching up in time to see Loki kneel between the downed guards. He spread his hands over their foreheads, drawing a pair of terrified side-eyes before a snap of electricity and a flash of green sent them slumping against the floor. He'd taken out the gatehouse guards the same way once they'd gotten suckered by his illusion; these guys were lucky to be laying down when Loki dropped the Big Nap on them. As soon as Loki stood, Fridur sheathed her sword and started walking, moving with the smooth implacability of a metro train. Vidblainn moved up to flank her; Loki waited for Kate to follow them, falling in at her side as they trailed the two elves.

Up ahead, the big alabaster doors loomed over them—and they were _big_ , nearly two stories high and wide enough to drive a Humvee through without worrying about the side mirrors. Fridur threw out her hand and spoke a few words of something queenly-sounding as she approached. The air went electric, making the hair stand up on the back of Kate's neck before the doors started to swing outward.

Fridur must have known the exact timing and path of the doors, because she strode between them just as they opened wide enough for her to pass, Vidblainn edging slightly behind her to avoid clipping the door. Their bodies obscured the view into the next room until Kate and Loki were between the widening doors, at which point, turning tail and running would have looked _really_ awkward. Unfortunately.

The room was a great big oval, roofed with the most enormous single-pane skylight Kate had ever seen. She guessed it had been open to the sky, once, because near the opposite end of the oval, underneath the skylight, was a massive tree—at least fifteen feet across at the trunk, its gnarly branches reaching up to touch the ceiling, its roots somehow growing straight through the _floor_. In the middle, wrapped as tightly in the trunk as if it had grown there—because it probably had—was a stone chair with an elf sitting on it.

A very pissed-off elf. Accompanied by about a hundred more elves in armor, lining both long-sides of the oval two and three deep on risers that helpfully allowed Kate to see every one of their grim, unhappy faces.

She repeated _fuck_ so quickly under her breath that it sounded like clucking.

Fridur stopped in the middle of the oval and spread her feet, one hand on the hilt of her sword, the other dangling in front of her thigh. Vidblainn stood behind and to the left of her, holding her staff across her body, her head tracking across the crowd in a slow scan for danger. The gentle pressure of Loki's hand on Kate's left elbow told her where to stop: a few feet back from the two elves, slightly off the center line of the room.

"So, traitor. You've come for my throne," the elf in the tree-chair said.

"I've come for your help," Fridur replied.

A ripple of shifting and shuffling went through the gathered elves as they looked at each other. Fridur didn't take her eyes off the elf in the chair. He was wearing red armor, like the armor Fridur had been wearing the first time that Kate met her, but it didn't fit him nearly as well as Fridur's had. The scales of the armor were accented with gold, and a big-ass cape swept off his shoulders, spilling out by his feet into a loopy pattern picked out in thread-of-gold and what _might_ have been honest-to-god gemstones. Peacock feathers, Kate realized suddenly, connecting the embroidery on Fridur's kameez to the pattern of the cape. So maybe peacocks were some kind of royal symbol? She looked back and forth between Fridur and her brother. _Peacock fight._

"You have watched over our country well in my absence, brother. Now it's time for you to relinquish the throne to me, and for us to face our enemies together. The Chitauri—"

"Do you think us fools?" Fridur's brother's voice rang out, loud and dismissive and larger-than-life. _Wow, those are some impressive acoustics_ , Kate thought. "We name you _traitor_ , Fridur, once called Dothisdotter. You stand as close to the throne as you shall ever come. Guard—"

"No," Fridur said, and if anyone had been breathing through what Fridur's brother said, they stopped at the sound of calm command in her voice. For a second, Kate thought she heard the leaves rustling in some tiny microclimate breeze, it was so quiet. "I don't think you a fool, Bui. Nor do I think those who have supported you are fools." Her voice rose a fraction, and somehow those king-of-the-mountain acoustics started working in her favor. "I will not punish those who supported you, even after my return, though it would be my right as heir of the blood and of the people, unchallenged by court or combat. Nor will I punish you for ordering my imprisonment and execution without grounds or trial.

 _"If_ you step down now."

Fridur's voice had started gentle and gotten harder and harder, until Kate was pretty certain she could cut glass on Fridur's last words. The whole room felt like it was balanced on a fingertip, ready to fall without giving any clue which direction it was going to fall in. Fridur's brother didn't flinch.

"Such _generosity_ ," he said, sharp teeth flashing as he sneered. "Such _kindness_ , from one who has yet to deny the charges against her."

"Name them and I will answer them before this court, my soul as forfeit if I lie," Fridur replied immediately. The elves filling the room broke into hushed, hissing commentary that was cut off by a mean laugh.

"Your soul as forfeit? An empty promise for one who would step over the bodies of her family to take the throne before her time," her brother said, spitting the words as if they burned his tongue.

"An empty rejoinder for one who sits on the throne before his time and would yet add the body of one of his family to the list of the dead," Fridur said, rapid-fire. The elves hissed in surprise, but Fridur wasn't finished. She didn't move, though every line of her body strained toward the throne. "Traitor, you name me, for fighting the men you sent to kill me. Traitor, you name me, for the Alfar who stayed at my side. Traitor, you name me, for you have named yourself king in my absence, though my heart beats strong with love of our people and the blood in my veins boils with vengeance-lust for our enemies. Name the stain on my bloodline that gives you the right to the place you have taken. _Name my sin, or name yourself usurper and prepare your throat for my blade_."

Debate has a pace. _That_ has to respond to _this_ within a certain period of time; Kate had been raised on CNN and Fox News, and if the exact verbiage and grounds of the debate—okay, _verbal combat,_ because if words could have drawn blood, she was pretty sure the room would be spattered with it by now—wasn't familiar to her, then the _sound_ was. And when Fridur's brother didn't answer right away, Kate didn't need Loki's hand tightening on her forearm to know that he'd just fucked up.

"You conspired with the Chitauri to take the throne," Fridur's brother said. "You bargained with them—trading the blood of our people for a throne. You—"

A single, brown leaf drifted down from the branches of the tree that grew around the throne. For a second, every eye in the room tracked its lazy descent; Fridur's brother's eyes widened in an expression that might have been horror. Fridur's head tilted to watch it fall, then snapped to his face. "Liar," she hissed, and drew her sword.

Then _everyone_ was yelling. Somehow Kate ended up with Loki at her back, her knife in her hand; a bunch of elves rushed into the space between Fridur and her brother and started shoving each other, leaving Fridur looking snarly and pissed. Vidblainn warded off anyone who started to get close to her queen, teeth gritted, while Fridur's brother rose from the throne and stood there, looking up at the tree, his face stricken.

"Lemme guess, the magic tree doesn't like it when people don't tell the truth," Kate said aloud.

"You're correct," Loki said, surprising her; she didn't think he'd be able to hear her over the din of the pushing and shoving going on between the elves. "The Alfar claim that it grew from a seed of the World Tree, but according to my research—"

Kate reached behind, grabbed Loki's coat, and dragged them both out of the way of an out-and-out brawl between elves—who, she noted squeamishly, were not afraid to use their teeth. "Research later. Avoid the Keebler Sharks now," she snapped, then let out a _woof_ of startlement as Loki curled an arm around her waist and twirled her out of the way of a blur of wrestling limbs.

"Keebler Sharks?" Loki repeated, setting her down. She blinked up at him.

"Keebler elves? You know, they live in a tree? Make Fudge Stripes? And sharks—"

"I'm familiar with sharks," Loki said, his voice low and amused. His arm was still around her, pressing her close. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, and she wanted to babble until it bloomed into a grin. "Perhaps you can explain—"

A loud crack split the air. Loki glanced up, then shoved Kate to the ground and covered her with his body as glass shattered and rained down on them. Surprised cries mixed with thud and roars; Kate peered out from the shelter of Loki's body and cursed.

The Chitauri had arrived.

The elves switched from fighting each other to fighting the Chitauri seamlessly. _Maybe they're all relieved they don't have to keep fighting each other_ , Kate thought, her mouth twisting, as Loki straightened cautiously.

"Stay close," Loki said.

Kate opened her mouth, something smartass on the tip of her tongue, and instead yelped "Motherfucker!" as a Chitauri warrior landed in front of her. It chittered nastily.

"Yeah, well, your mama hit every branch falling out of the ugly tree," Kate snapped and sliced the back of its hand. It squawked, surprised, then leveled the giant gun-pod-thing on its other arm at her. Then its head disappeared.

The body dropped to its knees, revealing an elf with a bloody sword turning toward another Chitauri. "Uh, thanks!" Kate called, then yelped again as Loki grabbed the back of her jacket and hauled her sideways. An energy bolt zipped through the air where she had been standing and hit the tree at the end of the room.

For a second, it was like every elf in the room sucked in a breath. Then there was a near-unanimous roar of anger. Kate flinched, even though it wasn't directed at her.

"They like that tree a lot, huh!" she called to Loki, behind her once more, as the elves in the room launched themselves at the Chitauri with renewed fury.

"Yes, they do!" Loki shouted back. "Duck!"

She dropped and watched a Chitauri warrior go flying overhead, all limbs flailing. "Keeeeeebleeerrrrrrr!" she bellowed, then cackled, the ridiculousness of the moment overwhelming her. Loki grabbed the back of her jacket and pulled. She let him lead her to the side of the room, out of the middle of the fray; though surprise had given the Chitauri an initial edge, they were outnumbered, and not _nearly_ as angry as the elves.

"Are you all right?" Loki asked, when they both had their backs to a solid wall. She looked over at him. He wasn't even breathing hard as he cupped her cheek with his empty hand and thumbed something wet off her cheekbone.

"I'm good," she said. "You?"

"Unhurt."

Impulsively, she bounced onto her toes, kissed his cheek, then settled back to her feet. Startlement flashed across Loki's face and was replaced by a slow smile.

"Later, little one," he purred. _Oh, hell_ , she thought, her cheeks heating. "For now . . ." he said, and lifted his gaze to the room. She followed him instinctively and found Fridur and Vidblainn in the middle of the room, surrounded by elves. A handful of Chitauri were still fighting near the doors, but they were very clearly losing. "I think we are needed elsewhere."

Fridur gestured sharply with her free hand, giving orders, while Vidblainn glared through Chitauri-goo at her side. Fridur's brother stood in front of the throne, frozen, sword drawn, as if he didn't know what to do.

"Yeah, sure," Kate said, and turned back to Loki. "Where?"

"To the place this attack was meant to divert us from," he said, and paused.

She blinked at him. _This attack_ —so the Chitauri—which meant they were being diverted from—

Her memory caught up to her: the staircase, where they'd overheard Fridur's brother yelling at Thanos, then giving orders to protect—

"The armory," she said, and felt an entirely irrational spark of pleasure at the approval in Loki's eyes before the rest of that conversation returned to her. _The stone_ , Thanos had said. Somehow, she didn't think he was talking about a lucky pebble.

She was still holding the knife. She gave it a hard flick, sending the little bit of goo on the blade flying, then sheathed it.

She hadn't frozen. She hadn't exactly gone _Underworld_ on anyone, but she hadn't frozen, and she wasn't hurt.

Not too shitty for her first real fight.

"Kate?"

She took a deep breath. "Yeah, okay," she said, and looked up at Loki. "Let's do the thing."


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly gory descriptions of Kate and Loki kicking ass ahead.

She was shaking.

The motion was tiny enough that she had no trouble returning the knife to its sheath, but it was there: a tremble in her hands, her fine fingers tightening over-hard on the knife's grip. "Kate?" Loki said. She took a deep breath, making the armor over her chest lift.

"Yeah, okay," she said, and looked up at him. "Let's do the thing."

Her lips were set in a determined line. The collar of Frigga's jacket framed her face in black and hid the soft slope of her shoulders, turning her into someone harder than the woman who'd woken in his bed this morning. Part of him wanted to peel off her armor right now, to reassure himself that soft-strong woman was still there, to run his hands over her unscarred skin and breathe in the perfume of her hair; and part of him was glad for that hardness, and not solely because it would protect her.

He turned away before that thought could develop further and led Kate along the edge of the throne room until they reached a side door. Trusting that it was for the purpose its placement suggested—namely, assembling Alfar nobles ahead of a show of force for a foreign visitor—he pushed through and found a less-grand passage that, with a little investigation, disgorged them into familiar halls.

Loki rather doubted that the Alfar could have foreseen exactly how useful it would be for Asgard's representative to Alfheim to know where their armory was. He imagined, thinking back on that diplomatic visit years ago, that their tour of the outermost layers of the armory had been intended as a polite warning: _play peacekeeper for the other eight realms if you wish, but stay off Alfar territory._ Thor had looked at the rows of weapons with the longing of a child shown prized toys and told he couldn't play with them.

"What's the plan, Loki? Bui sent guys to the armory, right? Are we hanging back until it looks like they can't handle the Chitauri, or are we going to try to convince them that we're the good guys?" Kate asked. She was taking quicker steps than he was, to compensate for his long legs, and breathing hard. He slowed down.

A plan. Right.

He ignored the tingling of warning in the back of his mind. Later, he'd ask himself what had driven him to such quick and foolish action; for now, he needed to put his sharpest weapon to work.

Windkeep technically had three armories: two lower armories, positioned for use by guards near the main and secondary gates, and a third armory, set deep in the solid stone of the castle. The third armory—the one the Alfar had not-so-subtly threatened them with—was in the form of a series of rooms separated by barred gates, the gates themselves staggered so that it was impossible to see from the entrance of the armory to its futhest reaches. Repair tools, projectiles, simple hand weapons, and field-carry distance weapons filled the first two rooms, which, based on the gate-wear he'd seen when he visited, were left open at least part of the time. A third room contained more powerful and complex weapons, and Loki had glimpsed a smaller, solid door leading to a fourth room.

Whatever Thanos wanted—whatever Bui had promised him—would be in the fourth room.

Kate was watching him, darting looks at him as she walked. Her hand was curled tight around the knife. He couldn't teach her to fight like Thor, or like Sif, or even like Sigyn; not in only a few minutes. But he didn't have to. Not if she trusted him.

He explained as they descended from the receiving halls to the ground level of the castle. The stonework turned darker as they entered the corridors used mainly by servants and the guard; the ceilings turned lower, the air warmer, the walls closer together. Kate listened, silent, her dark eyes intent, until they descended their last flight of steps. The air carried the bite of ozone and the peculiar rotten scent of the Chitauri; Kate smelled it at the same time as Loki did, sending her eyes widening and her pupils pinning before her jawline hardened and she turned her full attention to Loki.

"So basically, I'm putting my life in your hands while you hide," she said, her words coming out quick and sharp-edged. Loki bit back his irritated response—he was hardly _hiding_ —but before he could say anything, Kate grinned, wide and toothy as an Alfar. "Good thing I trust you."

 _Good thing I trust you._ Loki opened his mouth and realized he'd skipped a breath. _Air._ Yes.

Kate's sharp grin softened into something fonder. She slid her hand under his coat and curled her fingers between his armor and his tunic. "We stick together," she said, and Loki wondered if she could feel his heartbeat against the backs of her fingers. She stood on her toes, mouth opening, and he needed no other invitation.

She was velvet and coiled strength and hunger. She was bird-boned and tissue-skinned and hot with life. Loki was never more aware of how fragile Kate was; how alive she was. He made himself break the kiss first, and shuddered.

 _Someday I will kiss you for the last time_ , he thought, and the thought itself was like a little death, ripping through his chest like a dull blade. She let go of his armor, her purpose in her eyes, blinding her to what felt like Loki's utter defenselessness as the thought of losing her drowned him in anticipated grief.

Or maybe she was less blind than he thought. She poked him in the chest.

"No brooding," she said, raising her eyebrows. "Only ass-kicking."

"As you wish," Loki said, forcing his voice to lightness before he made a mock bow. When he rose, her eyebrows had climbed halfway up her forehead.

"You did not just—" She looked away and muttered something to herself before looking back at him. The corner of her mouth curled. "Okay, Dread Pirate Loki," she said, a near-laugh bubbling up into her voice. "You ready?"

He made a note to ask her later what, exactly, she found so amusing, and why she was calling him a pirate. "I am."

She drew the knife and held it as he'd directed her before, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then stepped out of the stairwell where they'd spoken. The hallway before the armory was wide enough for ten people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, the ceiling a plain vault. The walls were carved with Alfar names and dates, the delicate script running in vertical lines from eye-level to knee-height. Spotlights from a source Loki couldn't find lit the names, leaving the middle of the hallway darker; Kate picked her way through, taking care to step softly and to avoid the bodies—Chitauri and Alfar—that sprawled across the floor.

Loki waited until she was halfway to the door to the armory, then followed her, using every sense he had to search out danger in the corridor. He found only the dead and the dying, though: Chitauri missing neatly-severed limbs, Alfar curled around char-edged blast wounds, blood and ichor channeled into depressions near the walls by a near-imperceptible sloping of the floor. _Clever builders_ , Loki thought, but couldn't suppress a shudder.

At the door to the armory, Kate waited for Loki to catch up. Sounds of battle came from inside: groans and clashes, shouts and startled cries. Her knuckles paled on the knife. She glanced at him.

"Did you get enough?"

He nodded. She looked away, and for a moment, her eyes lost focus, as if her attention was elsewhere. She let out a long, slow breath and settled into a knees-bent crouch before sliding through the doorway, quick and silent. Loki followed.

The walls had been lined with spears and bows, swords and halberds; at one time, they stood in neat rows, a gleaming army of shining metal and polished wood on metal frames affixed to walls and standing free in the middle of the room. Now there were gaps in the ranks along the wall, and one of the freestanding racks had been knocked onto its side, two of the support beams broken. Spear-shafts and arrows were scattered across the floor like a child's game of pick-up-sticks. A Chitauri soldier was dead, sprawled across the chest-high armorer's counter; an Alfar slumped on the floor beside it.

A limping Chitauri stepped around the remaining rack, caught sight of Kate, and hissed.

"Fuck!" she yelped, and scrambled backward.

And tripped, landing on her hands. The knife went flying.

 _"Fuckohfuckohfuck—"_ she gasped, raising her hands futilely. The Chitauri let out a screech of satisfaction and moved in, raising the spear, and Loki's heart skipped. _Kate—_

Then the Chitauri stiffened and lost its grip on its weapon.

"Asshole," Kate snarled, and jerked the knife out of the narrow gap between the Chitauri's helmet and its armor. It collapsed face-forward, boneless, dispelling the illusion of Kate that Loki had used to distract it.

"Oh, _gross._ " Kate shook her hand, lip curled, trying to get the gore off her blade and her fingers without letting go of the knife. Loki crossed the room, stepping neatly around the dead Chitauri, and willed his heart to slow down.

"Are you all right?" he asked, managing to keep his voice free of most of the irrational flash of fear he'd felt when he saw the Chitauri preparing to strike his Kate-simulacrum. She made a face at him.

"Yeah, fine. Just . . . ugh. Gross."

"Can you do this again?" Loki asked, lowering his voice. She looked up from her hand, eyes sharp.

"Can you?" she snapped.

Her hand was trembling, her knuckles cream-colored. There was a defensive curl to her shoulders. Loki opened his mouth, meaning to tell her to leave the armory, to go back, but she swallowed and straightened, forcing her shoulders to drop and her fingers to loosen with a visible effort. She looked at him, her dark eyes intent, her jaw set, her mouth a tight line.

Something slammed against the shared wall between this room and the next. Kate flinched, but didn't look away. He took the opportunity to study her—the shape of her rounded nose, her stubborn chin, the delicate feather of her lashes—even though he didn't need to. She was burned into him as if she were a star he'd stared at too long.

This time, when he spun her double out of thin air, he copied the Chitauri-blood on her knife and the determination in her eyes. Kate's gaze slid to it, and for a moment, they simply stood there, his lovely warrior and her double. Then Kate nodded at it. It nodded back, then turned toward the door and shifted the knife nervously in its hand.

"Do I really look like that?" Kate asked softly.

"Like what?"

For a second, Loki thought she wouldn't answer. She watched her double pick through the debris in the room, then pause, shoulder against the next wall.

"Like a badass."

When he didn't answer, she turned to him, and he almost stopped smiling at her wide-eyed expression of incredulity. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, unable to resist touching her. "That's what you look like."

She turned her head toward the double again. "You're a terrible liar," she said under her breath, then, while he was still deciding whether to laugh, she stalked after her double, knife held low and ready. He watched her go for a moment, then followed.

The first Chitauri scream came seconds later.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, brief mention of animal distress.

Chitauri Number Two went down with a knife to the kidneys, or whatever set of organs Chitauri had that was in approximately the location where humans had kidneys. (If it wasn't kidneys, it was something important, because when Kate stabbed it, it let out an unholy screech and went down flailing.)

Chitauri Number Three technically succumbed to an Alfar sword in the eye, but Kate was being very distracting at the time, so she figured that counted as an assist for her. (Was it totally wrong to think of people—okay, _creatures_ —she was killing like she was scoring a hockey game? Probably. She'd take it up with a therapist if she survived this.)

Chitauri Number Four was supposed to kick it after a slice to the throat. Instead, Kate slipped on the blood-and-goo-covered floor and ended up stabbing _through_ the Chitauri's armor. This would have been great, except for two things: one, the Chitauri didn't die; two, the knife got stuck. Fortunately, Loki stepped in. In a move so fast that her eyes didn't want to believe it, he cut the Chitauri's throat, arms, and thigh, then kicked it into the opposite wall.

"What did I tell you about stabbing?" he snapped as he hauled her up.

"No stabby," Kate said, then someone was laughing hysterically.

It was her. Oops.

She caught her breath with her hands planted on her thighs, staring at the stone floor. Someone's hand—some elf's hand—was in her field of vision. It wasn't moving. It was missing two fingers. There was a ring on one of the remaining ones. Plain silver. Like a wedding band, but not on the usual finger (which was good, because the usual finger was one of the missing ones).

There was a knife in her field of view. _Her_ knife. Held in Loki's pale hand.

She didn't want it. She wanted to go home, take a shower, and order a pizza. She wanted to drink Sprite and turn the window air conditioner up and wrap herself in Kinsley's crochet blanket and watch TV with the window shades drawn, or, failing that, she wanted to be _anywhere_ other than some random-ass windowless castle basement full of dead people and stinky aliens.

She lifted her hand from her thigh, grabbed the knife-handle, and made herself straighten up.

Chitauri Number Five got trapped under a rack full of leaf guns. Okay, she had no idea if they were actually guns or if the design was actually supposed to resemble a leaf, but based on her heretofore minimal experience with elves, guns, and elf guns, she was going call them leaf guns until she was corrected by someone who knew what the hell she was talking about. Given that most of the elves in the room were dead or bleeding from places that looked important, she was going to assume that no one would be correcting her any time soon.

Number Five squealed in a way that reminded her of the time a squirrel got its claws stuck in the screen of her summer camp cabin's door and started panicking, which had made every one of her ten-year-old cabin-mates freak out. She looked down at the Chitauri, scratching at the floor as it tried to crawl out from under the heavy metal frame, and instinctively—stupidly—she reached for the part of the frame nearest her. She was actually starting to lean her weight on it, lifting it off the trapped Chitauri, when the alien's squeal turned into a growl and it reached for the gun-thing it had dropped.

 _Fuck,_ she thought.

She let go of the frame. Number Five's claws scratched across the gun, sliding it closer, though it didn't have a good grip on the weapon. She took two quick steps, kicked the gun away, then stomped.

She didn't think about it until her foot made contact.

Then she couldn't really ever un-think about it: not that moment, though she turned away from the body and kept fighting; not the instincts that had brought her to that moment.

Her instinct—her _reflex_ , her unconscious, _who she was_ on a gut level—had heard someone, something in distress, and gone to help. Then she'd seen danger, and just as fast—just as _instinctively_ —she'd killed that creature. She had hesitated more before stepping on spiders.

 _Crunch_.

It was dead, just like the others, and how she killed it shouldn't have mattered. But it did.

 _God forgive me_ , she thought, and felt dirty even asking for forgiveness.

There was a Six, and a Seven. Someone tried to cut her arm off; she was pretty sure she'd have a winner of a bruise from that. She got whacked in the ass, which should have been more embarrassing than painful except it _really_ hurt, but the Chitauri responsible was Eight, so _fuck you,_ space cockroach _._

Then she and Loki were looking into the last room with the only two elves who could still fight, except that they were looking through a hole in the wall where the door to the last room should have been, and beyond the hole wasn't a room. It was a tunnel, the walls chipped out of the stone with jarring crudeness. The invisible lighting that brightened the castle everywhere else was absent here, but it wasn't pitch dark: a faint green glow came from the other end of the tunnel, providing just enough illumination to suggest that the tunnel wasn't long. Kate turned to look at Loki and caught the tail end of a frantic hand-sign conversation between the two elves, their expressions filled with a mix of anger and fear, their fingers a pair of panicky blurs.

"What the hell is this?" she asked. They froze, looking half guilty and half defensive, and their eyes darted from her to each other.

"From their handtalk, I believe they're debating whether they should allow us to enter or not," Loki said. The elves' faces turned affronted. Loki's gaze slid sideways to Kate. "If this is what I think it is, they may well ask themselves whether _they_ should enter or not. Of course, given that the Chitauri have already blown through the gate and may be attempting to steal one of their people's greatest treasures—"

The elves shot him a glare and engaged in a few more seconds of blindingly fast handtalk before one of them let out a hissing breath and jogged back through the half-ruined armory. Loki turned slightly and raised an eyebrow.

"The Heartstone cannot be lost," the remaining elf said. He drew himself up, his solemn expression making him look younger beneath the bruises blooming on his cheek and jaw; his gaze darted between them before settling on Loki with the air of someone making a decision in the absence of the proper authorities, half defiant, half resigned. "If you're truly an ally to Alfheim, then you'll help us."

The elf who'd gone haring off came back, carrying two bows and a quiver, another quiver on her back. She handed the extra bow and quiver to her partner, stiffening for a second when he grimaced and favored his left arm. He caught her expression and gave his head a tiny shake before looking to Loki.

"We go first. You follow."

"Of course," Loki said, purring the words into an implied _fuck you if you think you can give me orders, you pimple-faced Keebler._ Or maybe that was just Kate's interpretation of Loki's expression.

The elves pulled out arrows—long, with sleek points and _nasty_ -looking barbs—and set them to the strings of their bows before gingerly stepping over the rubble of the wall and into the tunnel. Loki followed, then Kate; she eyed the walls suspiciously, waiting for hidden blades to come slicing out, Indiana Jones-style.

No booby traps appeared, though, and the tunnel wasn't long—maybe thirty feet, at most. They emerged at the end into a huge cavern lit in green: stalactites dangled out of the darkness, indicating that there was a ceiling _somewhere_ overhead, while stalagmites poked up from the floor like clumps of mopey hipster party guests. At the center of the cavern, at the end of a path that had been cleared between the stalagmites, long, skinny roots dangled from the ceiling and plunged into the floor, tangled around the source of the green light: something roughly fist-sized and so bright it was impossible to look at directly. Shadows flickered through the cavern and the stone walls echoed with shouts and clashes as Chitauri and elves fought in front of the green light.

Two elves, Kate realized after she squinted at the fight for a while, and a _lot_ of Chitauri.

The elves who'd led them into the cave looked sick to their stomachs, and not just because of the green light. As Kate watched, though, they planted their feet, drew their bows, and loosed a pair of hissing arrows into the scrum in the middle of the cavern. Before the first yelp carried over the rocks, they were drawing and shooting again. The Chitauri began to turn in their direction.

"Shall we?" Loki asked softly. Kate glanced up at him, made sure she had a firm grip on her knife, and nodded. Her double appeared beside her, grim-faced and badass. (She didn't care what Loki said, he'd _totally_ made illusion-her more kickass-looking than she really was.)

She took a deep breath, and moved into the stone-and-shadow-filled cavern floor.

_Come on, Number Nine. Come and get it._


	55. Chapter 55

_Earlier:_

He was gone.

Fridur searched the faces of the people rendering aid, the faces—gods protect them—of the dead; but Bui and his stolen armor were not in the sky court. The air was thick with blood-and-battle-stink, and each searching step she took crunched across broken glass. She looked up and felt the cold air pouring down onto her face as it must have centuries ago, before her grandmother ordered the court roofed in glass.

Three generations without war. Three generations without assassination, rebellion, court-combat. Her children by Vidblainn hadn't been _crib-sworn_ , that was how confident they had been that things had changed.

No more wars between brothers and sisters and cousins; between aunts and daughters, uncles and sons. No more violence among the people, no more burnt houses or blood feuds. She'd known Bui was ambitious; known that he had courted her father's opponents, _her_ opponents, that he had been deeply disappointed when she made Vidblainn her second-in-command, but she'd thought—she'd hoped—

She breathed out, and her breath plumed for a second before disappearing.

It didn't matter what she had hoped.

Bui had betrayed her. She'd given him a second chance, and he had blasphemed before the Forest Throne. As Queen, it pleased her that he had condemned himself before a gathering of peers; as a sister, it made her want to wring his neck.

He was the secondborn; she was the first. There had never been any sense in resenting her for their birth order, yet he had—from childhood, when it could be excused, to the bloom of adulthood, when it had become a matter for quiet conversation and careful planning.

She'd talked about Bui with Vidblainn after she'd appointed her as her second. Vidblainn had been radiant with the life inside her, their second child, but there had been darkness in her eyes. "I can step down," she'd said, her voice soft. "Say it's the child. Say I want to spend more time in the palace."

"Do you want that?" Fridur had asked, gone still with alarm at the thought that Vidblainn might have accepted her position only to please Fridur. But her beloved had only stretched with a sleepy languor that emphasized every perfect curve of her body.

"I want you safe. I prefer to watch over you from your side. But if appeasing Bui in this matter would bind him closer to you—"

"No," Fridur had answered, reaching out to caress the curve of Vidblainn's belly. She couldn't help herself, these last weeks. "He would turn the guard against me, if he could." She looked into Vidblainn's dark eyes. "It's half the reason I made you my second."

Mischief sparkled where darkness had been. Quicker than Fridur could stop her, she pinched Fridur's ass. "I know the other half of the reason."

When they had finished wrestling, always careful of Vidblainn's belly, and were tangled in each other's arms again, Vidblainn had lain her head on Fridur's breast. "Just tell me when," she had whispered. Fridur had threaded her fingers through the long, dark glory of her hair without answering.

If her brother had to die, it would not be at the hand of another.

She owed him that much.

"My lady," Vidblainn said from behind her. Fridur turned and clutched hard at the panic that rose in her. Vidblainn's mouth was a tight line, puckering with pain at the corners; she leaned her weight on her staff, and the hand she held to her side was blood-streaked.

"Lieutenant," she said. Vidblainn caught the buried note of fear in her voice and shook her head: a tiny movement, only noticeable if you were watching her from a few feet away. _The wound wasn't serious_. Fridur's heart ignored the message and beat as if it meant to do the work of Vidblainn's heart as well as its own.

"The Chitauri approach in greater numbers than we've yet seen. I've sent warnings to the . . . citizens' groups. But I—I think we may have another problem."

Vidblainn's face was gray, her knuckles pale on her staff. _Damn you, finish your report and find a healer,_ Fridur wanted to shout at her, but she held back, a note of alarm creeping into her thoughts. Even injured, Vidblainn did not stutter or hesitate in her reports. Fridur's sense of alarm only intensified when Vidblainn lowered her voice.

"My lady, when Bui ordered the nobles to the sky court, he also ordered the guard on the armory tripled. I sent a messenger there to redistribute the men to the gates, but he hasn't reported back, and the gate guards have not been reinforced. And . . . the foreigners are gone." Vidblainn's eyes were wide as she lowered her voice further and leaned toward Fridur. "My lady. There are rumors that Bui was heard talking to a—a deep-voiced man. They spoke of the Heartstone."

_Fuck the gods._

That was where Bui was. Fool, traitor, selfish child that he was—still, he would not let the Heartstone be stolen.

She took Vidblainn by the wrist. "Send reinforcements as soon as you can. Lead the defense." Fridur pulled her close and kissed her hard before letting her go, Vidblainn's mouth fallen open in surprise. "I love you, Vidblainn, mother of my children, heart of my heart. You are the shade that comforts me, the water that gives me life. You are my shield and I am yours. I name you my blood-heir in the sight of the gods. Take up my sword if I fall, and defend the people."

"Fridur—" was all Vidblainn had time to cry before Fridur stepped out of reach and found the quiet place where the path of stars began. It was a dark path, here in the castle, but she found it anyway, as Bui had, and joined it. She had just given Vidblainn the ability to walk the path of stars from within Windkeep by naming her the next blood-heir, but she doubted that Vidblainn would realize that particular ramification of Fridur's actions in time to follow her.

 _If we both survive this, Vidblainn will deliver me a reprimand that will become legend,_ Fridur thought, a little proudly, _and I will deserve it._ Fridur had just destroyed every chance she had of making a political alliance through marriage _and_ overturned several centuries' worth of precedent regarding the naming of the blood-heir. If she survived this, she would be censured by nearly every member of the court. She didn't give a damn. She loved Vidblainn, and if she died before her beloved, then she meant Vidblainn to be queen, and the traditionalists could choke on their precious bloodlines.

Vidblainn would know her place in Fridur's heart.

And that was the thought that made her ready to face death.

\---

The heart of the mountain was never still—it was a living mountain, after all, with water running through its cracks and creatures burrowing beneath its skin—but usually it was quiet. Not so today.

Fridur had a moment to see the Heartstone still in place (gods be praised) and to identify a rhythmic banging as the sound of the armory door being forced before a blade swept down at her. She stepped out of the way neatly, adding a quick twist to keep herself clear of Bui's second strike while she drew her sword.

"Brother," she said, and turned away a darting thrust.

"Sister," he hissed back, flicking his blade at her eyes. She'd always hated that trick. Her patience evaporated.

She let her retreat seem uncertain—an easy task, given the uneven floor of the cavern—and when Bui pursued, she caught the tip of his blade against the middle of hers. Steel shrieked as she bound his sword and forced her blade down his, until they were guard to guard with her edge hovering at his throat. Bui fought her for a second, despite her stronger position; then a light went out of his eyes.

Her only warning was a waver. She restrained her strength a moment before Bui let go of his sword, barely stopping the _jian_ from continuing its arc through his neck as Bui's blade clanged against the stone. He spread his hands wide and sank to his knees, almond eyes bitter and fixed on her.

"You win," he said. "As always." He lifted his chin, presenting the smooth expanse of his neck. "You'll forgive me, I hope, if I insist on ending it like this. I'd rather not be a spectacle."

She restrained the impulse to answer his petulance with petulance. "As you would have made me?" she asked, instead, putting ice into the words.

"Yes," he said, his voice level despite his trembling lips. "As I would have made you."

She looked down at him, kneeling before her, wearing her father's armor; honest now, with his death in her hands. She watched the bitterness and the guilt drain away. He straightened without their weight to hold him down, and for a moment, she saw the king he could have been: solemn, even grim, but true as tempered steel. A good king. A good man.

"Swear loyalty to me now," she said, impulsively. He frowned. "Not as your queen. As your sister." She hesitated. _No._ "As Alfar. Help me defend the Heartstone, and I promise to give you a good death."

Calculation flickered through his eyes, sending her stomach roiling, and he saw that she saw. He would betray her. And he knew that she knew it. "I could force you to kill me now," he said, without making the slightest move toward the sword at his knees.

Fridur felt her pulse throb in her throat. "You could," she agreed. She could have left it there, let him swing in the silence until he was ready to assent to this too-brief truce, but she had a weapon at hand, and she decided that she was done with mercy. It gave her no satisfaction. "Thus would you murder a warrior of the Alfar when his sword was desperately needed, and show yourself an attested traitor."

Bui's face blazed with anger. His hand twitched toward the sword and stopped. Fridur waited as darkness roiled behind his eyes.

"I swear," he growled. He reached for the sword. She flicked his cheek.

He flinched and reached for his face. Halfway through the gesture, his eyes went to her; after that, his movement was slow and deliberate as he touched the wound, looked at his red-smeared fingers, then looked up at her.

"Swear your loyalty to me. Swear it on the breath of your daughter."

He paled. "Kirdi?" he whispered; then his hands dropped and clenched into fists. She saw the direction of his thoughts and spoke before he could.

"She's safe on Asgard, with the other children. She will remain safe, regardless of what happens here." Fridur let her words sharpen. "You may practice the old ways, brother, but I don't."

A metallic screech echoed through the cavern. Chitauri voices carried down the stone tunnel that led to the armory. Neither Bui nor she turned toward the sound.

"They were never old, sister," he said. He opened his hands, fingers unfurling like petals. "I will defend the Heartstone to my last breath. This I swear on my daughter's head."

He'd said nothing of loyalty to her.

A crash followed an explosion, Chitauri snarls carrying across the stone. He'd fight until he was dead or the Heartstone was safe, then he'd kill her.

She slid her toe under the balance-point of his sword and flicked it into the air. He caught the grip. "Two against all. Heartstone's home. One tag and you're dead," she said. His eyes narrowed. Over his shoulders, she saw the first Chitauri entering the cavern—dark shapes, so far from the glow of the Heartstone.

"Treating this like a child's game won't make either of us forget what we've done," he said. He didn't rise from his knees, though the tension in his shoulders told her he knew the Chitauri were crossing the cavern floor. Stubborn as he'd always been.

"It helps me remember that you were family once," she said. "And that I trusted you."

He flinched at that. She stepped back. He rose. And for a moment of delicate balance, she didn't know whether he'd turn his back to her and face the Chitauri, or if he'd raise his sword against her again. Her point hovered in the air near his thigh; he could pierce her heart before she could so much as nick his armor.

The green light of the Heartstone shifted on his face, shadows crossing his eyes. "You could trust me again," he said, so softly that she doubted her ears. Then he turned his back to her.

 _Dammit, Bui_ , she thought, then the Chitauri were on them, and she was out of time for thinking about trust and treachery.

The dark worked to their advantage, as did the ground. The Heartstone was wrapped in slender roots that stretched down from the ceiling and twined themselves around a convenient (or perhaps simply ancient) stone formation; around it, stalagmites rose from the floor of the cavern like silent guards. Fissures opened to either side, limiting the number of practical approaches from the direction of the armory to one—and a narrow one, at that, capable of being blocked by one very large person, or two very quick ones.

Had the Chitauri been willing to use their distance weapons, the ground might have made little difference. But wary of shooting in the dark—or, more likely, under orders to avoid risking accidental damage to the Heartstone—the Chitauri didn't. They came at Bui and Fridur in pairs, but not _as_ pairs, taking on the two Alfar as if they were separate targets.

Bui and Fridur were not.

Pairs-fighting is difficult. It is easier to be a hindrance to one's partner than a help; easy to bump into a backswing, attack the same obvious opening, tangle a parry or simply draw the eye at the wrong moment. Beyond a fighter's usual skills, it requires training as a pair: learning how to pay attention to one's partner and one's enemies at the same time; learning another's responses and weaknesses; learning to suppress some instincts and develop new responses.

Bui and Fridur had been training together for centuries.

She dropped low, taking out the knees of the first Chitauri while Bui parried its spear, forcing it into position to block the Chitauri beside it. The hamstrung Chitauri fell, screeching, and Bui cut its throat while Fridur darted her sword-point over its shoulder and blooded the Chitauri behind it. Bui kicked the first, dying Chitauri in the chest, sending it sprawling backward; Fridur spun behind him and swept her sword onto the outstretched arm of the frustrated Chitauri who, finally clear of its dying partner, was trying to run Bui through. She didn't take the creature's hand off—not entirely—but it howled and dropped its weapon, offering a childishly easy target for Bui to hit.

He hit it. The Chitauri fell. Another took its place. Fridur flicked the blood from her blade before it could run down over the guard and onto her grip, and continued.

They were not perfect. They hadn't practiced together in over a decade; Bui's place had been taken by Vidblainn, and hers by . . . she didn't know. The thought bothered her for a few seconds. _Who had taken her place at Bui's side?_ Had _someone taken her place?_ A Chitauri with an unusually long reach swung its spear at Bui's head.

 _Later_ , she thought as she pierced it through the shoulder, taking a cold satisfaction in the way it writhed around her blade. _Later I'll find out who guarded his side. For now, I have his back._

And he had hers. He diverted a half-dozen attacks directed at her, offered himself as a target to create openings for her to exploit, even threw himself—and his armor—bodily into a Chitauri when they were both caught out of position with an axe descending toward Fridur's head. Unarmored, she couldn't return that favor, but she reciprocated the others, feinting, parrying, dancing around Chitauri bodies and Chitauri blades with a lightness that defied her situation: defending Alfheim's greatest treasure against a gang of heavily armed aliens with only her traitorous brother for help.

There was a kind of peace in this, she reflected as she retreated with Bui, ceding ground to find less blood-slick footing; the peace of being entirely in the moment. The peace of worrying only about the man next to her, and not the rest of the squad, or the division, or the innocents nearby. The peace of simple choices: kill or be killed. She lost herself in the battle: in her place on the field, in the condition of her partner, in the movements of her enemy, in her own decreasing strength as slips and glancing blows and near-misses added up.

When the arrows sang out of the dark, it shook her out of battle-dreaming. Chitauri shrieked and some split off. Paradoxically, this made the remaining Chitauri harder to fight: without their fellows backing them up, they lost some of their boldness and slowed their attacks. _Reinforcements?_ Fridur wondered; but she never heard more than two arrows land at the same time, and after a few volleys, the arrows stopped. Either the archers were dead, or they were fighting hand-to-hand.

She and Bui retreated within three long strides of the Heartstone. Four Chitauri remained to press them; Fridur wielded her sword with her left hand, the fingers of her right hand unable to close tightly enough to hold it after she'd caught a hard blow on her forearm. She didn't think her arm was broken, but she was resolutely ignoring a great deal of pain. Bui was limping badly and favoring his left side, half the plate over his thigh cut away and the flesh beneath scored deeply. The Chitauri spread out in the more open ground near the Heartstone, arranging themselves three-abreast with the fourth hanging about behind the first three.

 _This will be difficult_ , she thought, before two of the Chitauri raised pod-shaped energy weapons. Evidently, they had finally drawn close enough to feel confident that they could hit either of the Alfar without risking the Heartstone. She stared down the unfamiliar barrel and readied herself to close the distance between herself and the nearest Chitauri. _Gods have mercy on my soul_ , she prayed.

Then all hell broke loose.

A squad of Alfar warriors charged the Chitauri from behind, shouting. The Chitauri turned and fired into them in a blind panic, and Fridur's breath caught at the sight of such desperate, suicidal bravery—until the warriors disappeared with a flash of green.

She didn't waste time searching out the trickster; she launched herself at the nearest Chitauri, aiming for the gap in its armor beneath its arm. Her aim was poorer with her left hand than with her right, though, and her point missed the finger's-width opening, sinking into the creature's upper arm instead. Sinking _deeply_ —perhaps a whole hand's-length of blade, enough that when the Chitauri whirled, roaring, she couldn't keep her grip on the sword.

Bui had reacted to the same opening she'd seen and was fighting the other gun-wielding Chitauri. Someone she couldn't see well—Loki?—fought a third Chitauri. She didn't have time to locate the fourth. The Chitauri in possession of her sword swung its gun at her, aiming for her head; she ducked, delivered a blow to its forearm meant to keep it spinning away from her, and kicked it in the knee.

Except the creature's knee wasn't there to kick. Instead, an armored backhand smashed into her jaw, sending her sprawling, her vision splotched with stars. She shook her head clear and looked up to see the Chitauri wrench her sword from its arm. It dropped her weapon with a clatter, then strode to Fridur and aimed its gun.

 _I'm sorry, beloved,_ she thought.

A steel blade grew from the Chitauri's chest. It looked down at this development, startled, before the steel withdrew. It sank to its knees, still wearing a look of startlement, and fell forward. Bui looked down at the corpse, then at her. "Getting slow in your dotage, big sister?"

She should have said something quick, something funny. Instead, she said exactly what she shouldn't have, her voice hoarse and low: "Thank you."

His face darkened and he turned from her, stooping to pull her sword from the Chitauri's body. She sighed and flattened her left hand against the stone floor, wincing as her muscles protested the effort of lifting her.

Bui turned back to her and held the point of her blade to her throat.

"This could never have ended any other way," he said.

His hand didn't tremble. Pain darkened his eyes, but not indecision. She'd seen this coming—known that they would reach this point eventually, one of them ready to kill, the other ready to die—but she hadn't anticipated the hatred that swelled fast and hot in her breast. He meant to take her from her family; to take a place that was not his, that he did not _deserve._

"Kinslayer," she hissed. "Writhe on your stolen throne and die friendless."

He bared his teeth at her and shifted his weight. Before he could finish the movement, a knife appeared at his throat. He froze.

"Drop the pigsticker, asshole," Kate said, behind him.

Bui's point lowered as his shoulders tightened. Fridur opened her mouth to shout a warning, but before she could, a _crack_ loud enough to make all three of them flinch echoed through the cavern. It was followed by the crash of rocks showering down from the roof, their impact rumbling through the floor of the cavern.

Bui's attention was divided between Fridur, Kate, and the roof collapse. Fridur wished for luck and shot her foot out. She hooked Bui's ankle, yanked it out from under him, then launched herself, landing her knee atop his stomach. Her right hand might not have been able to make a proper fist, but that didn't stop her from smashing it into his face once-twice-thrice until his mouth was bloody and his eyes were dazed.

"Fridur," someone said, and caught her arm. She shoved the interloper away, intent on finishing the job she'd started, but a yelp brought her head up.

Kate sat a few feet away, looking startled and afraid. Fridur blinked, and the haze of rage cleared her eyes long enough for her to put it together: Kate had tried to stop her, and she'd shoved the mortal away.

Her breath was loud in her ears, her heart a deafening drum. She looked down at Bui. He bared his teeth at her through a swollen face, his eyes gleaming with fury.

Beyond him, sunlight poured through a massive, unnaturally even hole in the cavern's ceiling. Fridur looked up and realized that the green glow of the Heartstone was gone. The hole in the cavern ceiling was letting in the only light. The Forest Throne's roots hung empty, slashed.

One of the Chitauri had gotten away.


	56. Chapter 56

Loki hadn't intended to test Kate. He'd expected to use his illusion heavily to draw attention away from her—a strategy that would be more effective if she stayed in front of him, where he could see her—until he could arm himself more lethally, after which he'd have her fall behind him and watch his back, as much as an untrained mortal could.

He didn't anticipate how fascinating it would be to watch Kate fight—to see her innate grace and her desire to survive pitted against her mortal aversion to harming others; to see instinct and adaptation overcoming her lack of experience and training. He diverted a few killing blows aimed in her direction, and turned aside others that would have injured her badly enough to stop her, but on the whole, he interfered on her behalf far less than he had expected, and, quite without intending to do so, he let her fight most of the way through the armory.

She was exhausted now, muscles shaking with effort, breathing heavily, the shades of those she'd killed darkening her eyes, but she was alive and whole and entirely capable of fighting again, if she was driven to it. Loki stood near her, listening to her pant, watching as Fridur directed what was left of her army, and felt . . . proud. He was proud of Kate.

It was an irrational feeling. He hadn't trained her. He'd barely taught her. And her fighting—well, if she had been an Asgardian, he would have picked her apart on a dozen points related to her progress through the first room of the armory alone.

But she wasn't an Asgardian. She was, on a strictly chronological basis, younger by a decade than the youngest Asgardian warrior-in-training. She had nothing but a few questionably useful Midgardian hand-to-hand lessons for knowledge, and nothing but a knife for a weapon. Granted, Bor's knife seemed to be significantly more lethal than its design would suggest, but that didn't change the fact that its wielder had survived more by bravery and intuition than uncanny advantage.

Kate could fight. And, more importantly, she was intelligent enough to be taught to fight better.

Part of him, Loki realized, had been watching her from the beginning, since she'd picked up that Chitauri spear in the street and fenced with him. A smiled curled his lips. No—even further than that: since she had threatened him with sugar water, when she still thought he was a rich mortal with expensive taste in clothes.

Part of him had sensed from the beginning that she was a fighter. Not an equal, but someone who could be trained to fight at his side. Someone who _wanted_ to fight at his side.

She was bent over, hands resting on thighs—the knife still in her hand. Her eyes rolled up toward him. "You all right?" she asked.

"I am. And you?"

She shrugged with one shoulder and straightened, not hiding a grimace. "Not dead. Got all my limbs. Somebody whacked me in the ass, though." Her eye slid sideways. "You could kiss it better for me."

He smiled slowly, until she was blushing furiously and couldn't meet his eyes. "It would be my pleasure," he said, keeping his voice low.

"You are so inappropriate," she muttered.

"You began this line of conversation," he replied, satisfied. She grunted in frustration and looked in Fridur's direction, away from him. The Alfar queen had apologized briefly for shoving her before asking Loki to render her brother unconscious. Now, surrounded by a swarm of late-arriving soldiers, she issued orders as a healer bound her wounds, sending Alfar scurrying to carry out her commands. The rumble of an explosion carried through the hole in the cavern roof, reminding Loki that though the Chitauri had retrieved what they came for, their footsoldiers would take time to recall.

"What was it?" Kate asked. She was looking at the roots that extended from the ceiling. Where the Chitauri had slashed them to retrieve the Heartstone, they curled, blackened.

"A treasure of the Alfar," he said. The pleasure he'd felt at Kate's demonstration of potential drained away. "An object of great power, not unlike the Tesseract."

"That's not good," she said under her breath. She stood where she was a moment longer, brows drawn down and mouth twitching as she thought, then started to walk across the cavern in the direction of the hole the Chitauri had blasted through the ceiling. She kept her distance from Fridur and her underlings, picking a lonely path through the rocks.

Loki eavesdropped on Fridur for a few minutes, determining that she was saying nothing of interest to him—directing her troops with the impatience of one who wished she was on the battlefield—before following in Kate's footsteps. Her destination quickly became apparent: the pile of broken stone beneath the hole in the cavern ceiling. _What are you up to, little one?_ he wondered, following behind her. She stopped, finally, where the light poured in, one foot on a chunk of rock, the other flat on the ground, her body half in darkness and half in light. She turned her face upward, the knife a silver sliver in her hand. She looked as if she was ready to rise into battle against the heavens—a valkyrie.

His approach over the rocky floor turned her head. Her pupils were pinpoints; she stepped back into the darkness and they blackened at the sight of him.

"Three planets. Three revolutions. Three magic rocks."

Loki stopped. The hair on his neck rose at the sight of her: armed, intent, and thinking hard. "Yes?" he said, keeping his voice light, though some instinct screamed warning at him.

"You. Gerd. Bui. Younger siblings who craved power."

He wanted to spin and check that no one was listening. He restrained himself from obvious movement and listened instead, blessing the hard floor and cursing the unpredictable echoes of the cavern. When he was reasonably certain that they were alone, he took a cautious step toward Kate and lowered his voice. "You speak of three very different individuals, Kate."

She flinched backward at the sound of his voice. At the _menace_ in his voice, Loki realized. She stood her ground, though her eyes darted behind him and to either side as she realized how far she'd wandered from the Alfar. Fear entered her eyes, sent her pulse racing; he could see it in her throat. He considered backing away, and didn't.

He wanted to see what she'd do.

"When Gerd thought I was you, she told me that I shouldn't have failed Thanos," she said, her voice low. Her eyes darted behind Loki, then to his face. _Taking care not to reveal information about him to their allies, or hoping for rescue?_ he wondered. "She talked about something called the casket of Ancient Winter. About destroying Asgard and building a new Jotunheim on its ruins."

He felt a flicker of guilt at the reminder of what Kate had suffered for him—at _all_ she had suffered for him, from the enmity of Asgard to Jotun torture to Thanos's mind games. He was a bastard to let her fear him like this, when in truth, he would—

He would what?

_Kill for her. Die for her. Tear down empires for her_ , his instincts whispered.

"Bui made some kind of bargain for this—Heartstone, even if he didn't intend to carry it out," she said. He could see effort it took her to stand still and tall, not to run, not to crouch. "And you—Thanos wanted the Tesseract after you were done using it to bring the Chitauri to Earth." He watched her swallow, Frigga's high-necked armor flexing. "Whatever he wants . . . it isn't good."

"Obviously."

She flinched, and he realized too late the cutting edge to his tone. "Someone has to stop him," she said rapidly, as if she meant to forestall another response from Loki. "Tell Asgard to make sure the Tesseract's safe, figure out where this Casket is, see if we can figure out where Thanos would have taken the Heartstone—"

Anger filled his chest. She thought to tell him his duty? Him, Loki, prince of Asgard? Or perhaps this—this _skirmish_ had her thinking that she could take on Thanos himself?

"'Someone'?" Loki repeated, and part of him knew he was reacting to the thought of Thanos, not Kate; knew it, and couldn't stop his words. "Someone like you, Kate? With your knife of destiny? Favorite of the queen you helped install on Alfheim, friend to Thor, darling of _the Avengers?_ "

She recoiled as if she was facing into a strong wind, but didn't retreat. "We," she said, her voice low. " _We_ have to stop him. _We_ have to get the Heartstone back."

"Right. _Together_. Like my brother says. _Together_ we'll save Asgard, defeat the creature that has sent armies against two planets, retrieve the cultural treasure of a species that neither of us belongs to—"

As Loki talked, Kate's eyes narrowed. She set her jaw, and Loki's voice rose and quickened; but a moment later, she jammed her knife into its sheath and stalked forward.

"—what else, Kate? Shall we conquer Jotunheim? Destroy—"

"Hey," she interrupted. "Loki. Are you being an asshat by accident, or on purpose? Because I really don't care for the attitude either way."

He stared at her, standing just out of arm's reach, so instantly and completely filled with rage that he couldn't speak. _How dare she—_

She was shaking. Not simply trembling— _shaking._ She'd pressed her hands to her thighs, where they were half-curled, as if they meant to crawl up her legs and hide themselves. The line of her jaw had hardened; she was clenching her teeth, trying not to make a noise.

She was afraid he'd turn his rage on her.

He blinked at the foolishness of that thought—

But wasn't that what he'd just done? Not physically, no, but—he was angry about Thanos, angry about Kate bringing up Bui and himself in the same breath, angry about _so many things_ but also—afraid. Afraid of Thanos. Afraid _for_ Kate.

His head writhed with thoughts as he stared at the shaking mortal before him. Thanos and Thor and Bui and the Heartstone and the Tesseract and the Avengers and Kate—too many thoughts, too many _emotions_.

He was being an asshat.

He forced himself to breathe deeply several times. The anger didn't leave—there was, if he was honest with himself, a part of him that was always angry, always resentful, always there, like a crack-capped crater sullenly glowing with magma—but it receded from the forefront of his thoughts. And when it receded, it revealed the one emotion an Asgardian prince could never admit to, the emotion that so often masked itself with anger in his thoughts: fear.

Fear of facing Thanos. Fear of dying. Fear of disappointing his brother. Fear of failing Asgard. Fear of losing Kate. Fear of watching Kate die.

"A little of both, I think," he said, voice low.

Like the angle of the sun changing, her face opened without moving. He extended his hand. She hesitated, then stepped within reach of his arms. He pulled her close, reassuring himself: she was real. She was solid. She was alive. And her fear of him would fade.

He let go of her, only to run his hands over her shoulders and her arms and her sides, feeling for injuries. She twitched, at first, then let him, one eyebrow rising. When he'd satisfied himself that she had taken no injuries that he was unaware of, he wrapped his arms around her again, and this time, she relaxed into them.

"If you won't help me, I'll do it on my own," she whispered.

For a moment, Loki didn't understand; then he stiffened. _What was she—_

"I'll talk to Thor. Fridur. The Avengers. Bui has to know more about him; Fridur owes me—"

"Kate!" Loki said, loosening his grip on her long enough to look into her face, shocked. She wasn't smiling; her jaw was set again, her body braced as if she was trying to keep herself from shivering apart. "What—"

"We're borrowing every moment from now to the day Thanos comes back," she said. "He isn't going to stop at trashing Alfheim and Earth. He'll come for Asgard, for the Tesseract, and then he's going to destroy all of it. All of us."

In the dark, her pupils were large enough to swallow him whole.

"I'm not willing to go back to my life, pretending that's not hanging over my head."

He opened his mouth to object—where did she get the ridiculous idea that she'd be going back to her stupid mortal life?—and stopped himself, a flutter of fear running through him. Did she _want_ to go back to her old life? She'd said she wanted to stay with him, didn't she?

_I'm not going to sit around and wait for you and Thor to save the Nine Realms. Not if I can help._

That was what she'd said. _Save the Nine Realms_. Not _I want to stay with you._ Not _I love you._

Because how unutterably stupid would that be? Falling in love with him—traitor, monster, murderer? He'd killed her people. He'd let her be tortured. He'd contemplated _abandoning_ her and stealing her body for his own use—

"No!" he said, and his voice was wild, at the edge of control. He swallowed, scrabbling for control, and tightened his grip on her. "You won't fight him alone." He forced himself to relax; to fight the quiver that wanted to crawl out of his belly. "We both have scores to settle with Thanos." He swallowed. "I won't leave you. Not . . . unless you want me to."

She let out a long sigh and leaned into him, dipping her head to press her forehead against his chest. "No. I want you with me, Loki."

He cupped the delicate curve of her skull and closed his eyes, trying to stay calm. Trying to convince his heart to stop thundering with fear at the thought of losing her, being left behind.

"Thanos isn't the only one we have scores to settle with," she said, finally, and lifted her head. Her mouth was hard. "And even if I didn't want to beat her ass, she's talked to Thanos. Maybe she can tell us where he's hiding."

"She's not on Asgard anymore," Loki warned, one eyebrow rising. Kate didn't flinch.

"So we visit her at home. You can get us there. You've gone before."

She had a point. And, now that Alfheim had its rightful queen in place, his debt to Thor was satisfied. In theory, nothing kept them from simply not returning to Asgard. They could go wherever they liked.

Midgard, even.

He traced the shell of her ear, drawing a shiver out of Kate that was not at _all_ about fear. "This is truly what you want?"

The bravado cracked. "No," she said softly. "I don't—I don't ever want to see them again. But you and me together—they wouldn't dare. And we need to know. I need—"

She stopped and looked away, light gleaming on her tears, and Loki kissed her temple, love and fear and anger still tumbling inside him.

"All right, darling. We'll go to Jotunheim."


	57. Chapter 57

She was full of bad ideas today.

Fighting her way into the middle of Big Elf Castle? Getting between Fridur and her psycho brother? Calling Loki an asshat? Granted, _let's take a field trip to the planet of assholes who tortured me when they thought I was you_ was probably her worst idea so far. Which maybe meant that she should try not to think any more today, given her trend toward increasingly terrible ideas?

She pulled herself together as she waited for Loki to finish explaining their plans to Fridur. The elf queen was starting to show the effects of all the fighting she'd done today, and her friends (underlings? Advisors?) were creeping closer and closer, clearly eager to get her to the elf hospital before she passed out on them.

"You truly believe this creature may have information that would help us find Thanos?" Fridur asked. _Us?_

"The Jotuns are incapable of travel between worlds, thankfully. Therefore, Thanos must have come to her. We begin where we know he has been."

Fridur's lips pursed as if she wanted to argue the point—or as if she was in major pain and trying to ignore it while she talked. Either way, she nodded instead of challenging Loki's explanation further. "One of my soldiers will take you where you wish to go." Her gaze sharpened. "It would go far toward restoring the relations between Asgard and Alfheim were you to share any intelligence you discover on Jotunheim."

Loki bowed with his head and shoulders. "If it is within my power, I will."

Fridur's gaze slid sideways to Kate. For a second, she wondered if she was supposed to bow, too, before Fridur held out her hand. _Okay, we're shaking hands_. When Kate took Fridur's hand, though, the elf pulled her closer and let go. Kate froze as Fridur reached for her face, pulled her head down, and gently kissed Kate's hair, her breath warm on Kate's scalp. She let go and Kate straightened, her cheeks burning.

"Know this," Fridur said, her voice not much louder but pitched to carry clearly through the cavern. "Loki Odinson and Kate Sullivan are friends of the crown. Render aid to them as you would to me. Insult them, and you insult me. Let it be so."

"Let it be so," the rest of the elves said back, their instant response echoing like thunder. Kate twitched, surprised, and felt as much as saw Loki's amusement. In the next moment, though, no one was amused as Fridur sighed and sagged into the arms of her underlings. There was brief flurry around her that had Kate holding her breath until the elves lifted Fridur on their linked arms and started carrying her chair-fashion. Half the soldiers and retainers who'd ended up in the cavern followed her, while the others milled, talking to each other, side-eyeing Kate and Loki, and looking at the torn roots where the Heartstone had rested. The latter group, Kate noticed, included elves covering their mouths with their hands, their eyes wide and horror-struck.

"The Heartstone has spiritual significance for the Alfar," Loki said. He stood at her shoulder, close enough that she was tempted to lean into him. "It is both a literal and a figurative source of power for the ruling family. Most ordinary Alfar never see it; for these—" he indicated the elves Kate had been looking at with his chin "—to have their first sight be not the Heartstone, but its desecrated vessel . . . it is a shock and a violation of the gravest sort."

The faces of the elves weren't human, but that didn't mean Kate couldn't recognize grief when she saw it—grief and disbelief and rage, like bystanders at the scene of a shooting. Her chest tightened. She might not understand their reasons, but she could understand the emotion.

"What happens if they don't get it back?"

Loki was quiet long enough that she turned to look into his face. He watched the elves near the Heartstone's resting place with calculating eyes. "Once, its loss might have felled the Alfar as a race. Now . . . perhaps not much, at first. Simply trying to put the kingdom back together will require much of Fridur's effort. But over the years . . . well." He turned to Kate, and there was an odd look in his eyes, part angry, part smug. "You'll see on Jotunheim."

Kate raised her eyebrows at him, but before she could ask him what the hell he meant, an elf warrior walked up to them, looking grim. Behind him, the others were starting to pull together in more organized groups, carrying the injured away and moving toward the hole in their ceiling, casting only occasional glances toward the Heartstone's former resting place.

"If it is your will, I will take you to Jotunheim," the elf said, coming to attention in front of them.

"We go first to Asgard, where we will report to my honored father," Loki said, sarcasm dripping from his words. He looked down at Kate, and his voice softened. "And we will find you something warmer."

The elf in front of them looked uneasy. "As my queen wills, so shall I—"

"You're not going to Jotunheim, just Asgard," Loki interrupted, and the elf's relief was visible. _How much did people on Alfheim know about the politics of Asgard?_ Kate wondered as the elf nodded, then began to lead them back the way they'd come earlier, across the cavern and through the armory. Was this guy worried about causing a diplomatic incident, or did he just not want to visit the frost giants? She couldn't really blame him either way, but she was curious—though not curious enough to say anything and risk the elf noticing that Loki was pickpocketing himself a collection of knives on his way through the armory. _For services rendered,_ she thought, and made a mental note to tell Loki to share later.

As they reentered the castle proper, moving toward what Kate's shitty sense of direction tentatively identified as the main gates, she glanced at Loki, then resumed her observation of the smoke- and fire-marked walls. "So. How exactly are we getting to Jotunheim if Legolas isn't taking us?"

"Patience," Loki said without looking down. Kate blew a raspberry.

He arched a brow at her. "I hope you don't expect to kiss me with that mouth."

Her cheeks heated. She blew another raspberry at him. The corners of his mouth curled.

Before she could resume pestering him about Jotunheim, they reached the great entrance hall. The nearly-two-stories-tall main doors were closed, but the elf led them unerringly to a smaller set alongside them.

Outside, the air was chokingly thick with smoke and ash and a scorched, seared taste that made Kate wish she didn't have to breathe. All three of them—Kate, Loki, and their elf guide—ducked as a pair of flying things screeched overhead. One was a Chitauri; the other looked like it had wings, but it was bigger and faster-moving than any bird Kate had seen. Plus, it was shooting at the Chitauri it was chasing.

"Keep low and move fast!" the elf shouted.

"He wants us to do what?" Kate yelped, looking at Loki.

"I'll take the rear," Loki said. "Go." Something like excitement glowed in his greenglass eyes. _You'll take the rear, huh?_ Kate thought, panic and humor bubbling in her gut, and threw herself into a desperate sprint after the elf.

They didn't go far—she guessed it was barely a hundred yards from the castle gates to the stone circle where, she figured, visiting dignitaries teleported in and out—but as she ran, she glimpsed enough to bring back bad memories of New York: flames on the skyline, people screaming, charred and twisted wrecks that might have been Chitauri sky-mopeds. The constant, unsettling sizzle and crack of Chitauri laser-spears mixed with ground-shuddering explosions and shouts of direction and defiance. Wounded people—Chitauri or elf, she couldn't tell—shrieked for help. As she watched, a three-story house collapsed in on itself like a fallen cake, walls failing like they were liquid, not stone.

Fucking Chitauri.

As the elf, Kate, and Loki crossed into the circle, Chitauri and elvish attention both turned in their direction. The elf held out his hands to Kate and Loki, lines scored around his mouth by fear. An energy bolt sizzled past them as Kate and Loki took his hands, and his instinctive flinch—pulling them closer—turned into the stomach-emptying churn of intergalactic teleportation.

 _Don't puke don't puke don't puke_ she chanted to herself, until she was spit out onto Asgard's familiar flagstones. She caught herself with a step, as if she'd somehow carried momentum through the whatever-it-was that had gotten them from Alfheim to Asgard, and looked up to see both Loki and the elf dropping into defensive crouches.

Because a bunch of Asgardian guards were pointing weapons at them.

Of course.

Loki—because he was freaking _Loki_ —was the first one to straighten up, ostentatiously returning the knife in his palm to whatever hidden sheath he'd kept it in. "Gentlemen," he said, voice cool as a tall drink of minty-fresh fuck you, "I believe you have instructions to announce my return."

The reaction to that was half squinty-eyed confusion and half outrage. The guards shuffled and looked at each other as if silently debating whether Odin would _really_ mind that much if his least favorite son came back with a few extra holes in him. Ultimately, though, the spearpoints lifted and one of the guards broke off, presumably to tell the rest of the castle that Loki was back. Kate took a deep, carnage-free breath, then brushed her hands over her jacket in a discreet check that her knife was close to hand.

It was. Her jacket was in one piece (though she scraped the side of her hand against her pants and promised herself she'd wash them soon—she'd touched something sticky that she _really, really_ didn't want to think about), Loki was in one piece, and they were back in the relative safety of Asgard. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and—

Their elf companion was throwing up in a corner. Apparently, not everyone was as good at teleporting as Fridur was. Kate looked at him, then at Loki and the guards, who didn't seem inclined to get involved. The elf straightened, wiping his mouth, and wobbled. _Crap,_ Kate thought, and went for his arm, steadying him before he could trip over his own feet. He pointedly didn't look at her while she steered him in the direction of a stone plant pot big enough to sit on. _Mighty warrior does not puke, does not need help from mortals, I get it,_ she thought, resigned, and backed away before he could spontaneously combust from embarrassment. By the time she'd walked back to Loki's side, the guards were parting to allow a woman in a gray servants' uniform to enter the courtyard.

It was a nice version of the uniform—trimmed with embroidery in silver thread at the sleeves and throat—which was less of a tip-off that this was Someone Important than the supercilious look on her face. "The All-Father will see you now," she said, nose high, as if not-looking at Loki would allow her to pretend she was talking to the air. Loki returned the courtesy, taking a long, graceful stride in the direction of the doorway without ever looking at the servingwoman. Kate tried to match his haughty grace with a "cool guys don't look at explosions" walk of her own, but it was cut short by the servant's gleeful squint in her direction.

"The All-Father invited only Loki into his presence. Guard—escort Loki's pet to his quarters."

 _Pet?_ Kate thought, irritated. Loki went deadly-still. Before either of them could snap at the servant, though, a rough voice piped up from behind them.

"Kate Sullivan is a friend to Alfheim's lawfully seated queen," the elf said, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Have a care how you speak of her, hireling."

Kate turned and shot a grin at him that he didn't notice as he sat down. The servant glared at the elf, her lips pursed tight.

"If the All-Father wishes to see me alone, then I will not disappoint him," Loki said, then turned away from her toward Kate. "If you will forgive my absence, Kate . . . ?"

Kate flirted with panic. _He was leaving her?_ But then again, these were orders from Odin. Not that that had stopped him from doing what he wanted in the past. _Calm your tits,_ Kate told herself, heart thumping. _He's trying to make nice, so he's doing what Odin wants. He's not abandoning you._

Loki's gaze sharpened, his focus narrowing on her, and she realized she'd taken too long to answer. _Fuck._ "Not a problem," she said, trying for casual. "Wanna wash my hands anyway. I'm pretty sure I smell like dead Chitauri," she added, and wrinkled her nose.

Loki's eyes warmed and his mouth softened. He leaned toward her for a moment, then back, as if he _wanted_ to go to her, but couldn't. "I'll return as quickly as I can," he said, voice low enough to make her toes curl in her boots; then he walked out of the courtyard, into the castle.

A few seconds of surprised milling followed as the guards and the servant who'd started the whole thing made hurried decisions about who was going to "escort" the rapidly-receding Loki, and who'd be responsible for Kate and the elf. She _almost_ made a break for it, just to fuck with the Asgardians, but before she made up her mind, the guards had worked out who was going where, and two of them had assigned themselves to her. The elf, shoulders drooping, rose from his seat on the edge of the planter; his guards watched him warily, as if they might have to dodge vomit at any time.

"Hey," Kate said. When the elf lifted his head, she added, "Thank you."

He drew himself up, chin lifting. "I did as duty to my queen demanded," he said, a bit huffily, then let his escort lead him into the castle. Kate made a face at his back, then realized what she was doing and pretended she hadn't. _Jerk,_ she thought at the elf.

Since the opportunity to make a sweeping exit had been taken, Kate left the courtyard quietly. Four of the guard peeled off with her—two ahead and two behind, as many as had gone with Loki. _Does this make me a badass or should I be worried?_ she wondered, but as they climbed through the castle, mostly Kate ended up feeling grateful that she didn't have to find her way back to Loki's rooms herself. The castle was _huge_ , and the longer she walked, the more tired she realized she was.

 _Maybe there will be leftover snacks from breakfast?_ she thought hopefully, then blinked. It had been _hours_ —hours that included multiple fights and a hell of a lot of hiking. Her stomach abruptly agreed, loud enough that the guards ahead over her looked over their shoulders, startled.

Fortunately, they were nearly to Loki's rooms; Kate spotted the door ahead. "I know it's not really your job, guys, but, uh . . . I don't suppose any of you would be willing to ask the castle kitchens for a snack? Just, I don't know, rolls and fruit?" Her stomach disputed the size of her request. Kate grimaced. "And cheese? Or something. Anything. I kind of. Uh. Helped overthrow a government and I just realized we didn't stop to eat."

The guards ahead of Kate had looked back when she started to talk; as she continued, their eyes widened, and when she finished speaking, they traded (very unprofessional) looks of astonishment, then discomfort.

"Something . . . will be arranged," the guard to her right finally said.

She rewarded him with her brightest smile. "Thank you."

In front of Loki's rooms, two of the guards took up positions on either side of the door, while a third opened it for her. _You've got the knife_ , she reminded herself when her breath caught in her throat. _They can't keep you here. Not if you decide you don't want to be kept._ Once she was inside, though, the soft thud of the closing door left her feeling claustrophobic.

She crossed the stone floor to the window, hoping that the view would help her feel less trapped, but it didn't: the castle had a tapering cross-section, and the next-lowest level was easily five stories away. Plus, when she tried to lean out to look over the windowsill, she found that the window opening was blocked by the same invisible force-field that had walled off her cell in the dungeon.

 _Chill_ , she told herself, but her heart was rabbiting, the guards and the field and the lack of Loki all combining to raise her anxiety. It was one thing to tell herself that Loki would be fine without her, that she'd be fine without him, and that they'd see each other again in a few hours at most, but it was another thing entirely to believe that.

Then she heard movement behind her, in the room she had assumed was empty, and her heartrate ratcheted up again as she spun.

"Well," a flame-haired woman in a black dress said, looking deadly and demure as she cut off Kate's route to the door. "If it isn't Loki's pet mortal."

"Who the hell are you?" Kate blurted, her hand on the knife. The woman smiled.

"My name is Sigyn. I'm Loki's fiancée."

 _Oh, fuck_ me _._


	58. Chapter 58

"My lord. Loki and the mortal have returned from Alfheim with an Alfar scout."

_Returned?_ Shock shot through Thor's veins, and his thoughts immediately turned to the worst. _Was he hurt? Killed? Had he failed in his mission and retreated to Asgard?_

Across the practice circle, Sif's face reflected Thor's own surprise back at him for a moment before it clouded. She swept his feet from under him, sending him to the packed dirt with a thump. He rolled away from her downward swing and heard her staff hit the ground with a _crack_ next to his ear.

He had invited her to practice the quarterstaff with him, thinking it would offer a distraction from his worries and—more importantly—an opportunity to show her that he trusted and valued her. She had been incensed when she found out that Loki had been the reason behind his departure from Alfheim; only his explanation that Loki would soon be departing to that selfsame realm had calmed her fury.

_Why?_ Thor thought desperately, deflecting Sif's strike and sliding out of the line of her attack. _Why did you not take the escape we offered, Loki? Why return to Asgard, where only pain and punishment await you?_

The idea had begun to grow soon after word of Bui's coup had reached Asgard, while the healers still labored to restore Loki's tortured mind. Thor had stood in the out-of-the-way corner the healers had begrudged him, watching his brother writhe in pain as Thanos's vile illusions were cleansed from his mind, and thought, _He has suffered enough for his sins._ What deceptions Loki had practiced on Asgard, he had done for Asgard's own good, to protect their people from an unready ruler. As for his actions on Midgard, he had been the tool of Thanos—and an unwilling one, undermining his master's mission whenever he could. Thor would not excuse him entirely—too many people had died for that—but he could not stand silently and watch Odin condemn Loki to new punishment; not when Thor knew full well his own actions had shaped his brother's course.

Yet Loki could not remain on Asgard. His father's hasty decree of banishment had ensured that: his father's decree, and the unease that seethed beneath Asgard's golden surface. Frost giants and Chitauri, a coup on Alfheim and new contact with Midgard, Odin lost to the Odinsleep unexpectedly, sons fallen into disfavor, the Bifrost damaged, all in barely a year. The voices whose opposition to Odin was usually delivered in whispers had risen in volume and in numbers. A few—voices that he would once have welcomed, to his shame now—called for Thor's ascension; others muttered that Asgard had been a monarchy too long, that the house of Bor had grown weak and must be replaced by a council of the wisest Aesir. A few even spoke speculatively of Loki: that perhaps there had been more to his fall and return than met the eye; that his banishment had purpose other than punishment. Loki's presence on Asgard could only feed the chaos, making Odin look indecisive and weak.

Sif pursued Thor aggressively, feinting high and low as she forced him back against the edges of the practice round. "Lady Sif—" he said, meaning to call a halt to their sparring, and cut himself off to duck a thrust that would have hit him squarely in the face. She was the most skilled of Asgard's warriors—and she had been holding back. Until she heard Loki's name.

Thor blocked a flurry of strikes that would have crushed a slower man's temple, trying to find a moment of calm in which he could ask Sif to hold. It took a half-minute to realize there wouldn't be one: Sif was the better warrior with a staff, and she was not interested in talking. Only Thor's quickness and strength kept him from receiving a wounding blow.

_Forgive me, Sif; I did not realize your anger._ It took another half-dozen exchanges for Thor to find the moment when, with a mix of careful timing and brute strength, he could lock his staff against hers. He levered it from her hands, sending the wooden rod flying across the field and scattering the Aesir who'd gathered to watch the prince of Asgard and his battle-companion spar.

"Well-fought, my lady Sif—" Thor began, but before he could finish, Sif had darted close, grabbed Thor's staff, and shot between his legs. The world did a flip, and Thor landed hard on his back, all the air driven from his lungs, his staff torn from his hands. Before he could catch his breath, Sif blocked the sun. He threw himself into a desperate roll, just escaping a wicked elbow.

"Lady Sif, hold!" he snapped as soon as his momentum carried him to one knee, and for a moment, he believed she would not: she crouched across from him, bent and deadly, violence in her eyes, anger in her heart. "Sif, what is this?" he asked, voice pitched to carry only to her. "What have I done to offend you?"

At his words, she stilled. It was only for a second, but afterward she straightened from her crouch, and Thor followed suit. Her voice was as cold as the winds of Jotunheim when she spoke.

"Nothing, my lord," she said. "Nothing at all."

She turned her back on him before he could protest, and he watched the scattered Asgardians part for her as she made a straight line for the barracks, not bothering to retrieve her practice staff.

_Dammit, Sif_ , he thought, and shook himself before turning to find his own staff. He forgot his task before he could complete it: the messenger who had announced Loki's return was still standing at the edge of the practice circle. She was a youth, and wide-eyed: no doubt surprised by the sight of her prince quarrelling with the warrior known throughout the realm as one of his closest companions.

Thor sighed. What happened in the practice arena was properly the business of Asgard's warriors alone, but gossip spread. And the news that Thor and Sif disagreed would do little to preserve the illusion of unity in the house of Odin.

"My little friend," he said, dusting his hands together, forcing himself not to hurry. "I would have your news, if you would give it."

The girl blinked, startled, and darted a look at the doorway through which Sif had disappeared before looking at Thor again. Disapproval settled into the wrinkle between her brows. _One who saw Sif as an inspiration_ , Thor thought, and felt his lips curling into a smile.

"My lord. Fridur has been restored to her throne, but fighting continues on Alfheim. The Chitauri have done great injury to the Alfar, including . . . things which are not to be spoken of openly," she finished, dropping her voice for the last words, worry replacing her disapproval. Thor frowned. _Things which are not to be spoken of openly?_ He stepped close to the girl, then dropped to one knee. She blinked down at him, surprised.

"What things, little friend?" he asked. She shook her head, surprise giving way to worry again.

"I don't know. They didn't say. But it was bad."

The earnest way her lower lip stuck out said that she had spoken all she knew. Thor nodded at her approvingly, then asked the question that had been on his lips since he'd first heard her voice. "And my brother? Is he . . . well?"

Her eyes narrowed, and if Thor had not been so worried, he would have laughed at the girl's naked disapproval. "Loki is alive," she said. "And so's the mortal. Odin asked for him."

_The more fool he,_ her tone said, and Thor pressed his lips together to keep in his smile. "I thank you for your news," he said, and an idea occurred to him. He leaned an elbow on his knee and made his face grave. "My friend, may I ask a boon of you?"

The girl shot to attention, stiffening in her best imitation of a soldier. "Yes, my lord!" she chirped, then winced as if regretting the eager squeakiness of her voice. Thor fought his smile and clapped a hand on her narrow shoulder.

"My lady Sif left before I could speak with her. I would have you carry a message to her, praising her skill in the arena and bidding her call upon me when her duties permit. Will you do this for me, my friend?"

The girl's face lit up, and Thor knew he'd guessed aright: Sif was a hero to many young women of Asgard, including this one. "Gladly, my lord!" she said, and was off as soon as Thor lifted his hand. He watched her run to the edge of the practice arena and skid to a stop when she realized she'd left the presence of the crown prince without leave. She looked over her shoulder, worried. Thor smiled and nodded at her, and a quick grin bloomed on her brown face before she sprinted away.

_That is some small good, at least,_ Thor thought, his smile fading, and rose to his feet. Though he was alone in the practice ring, for the moment none approached him, and he seized the opportunity to think.

Standing in the healing rooms, he had come to understand that Loki could not remain on Asgard. Where he would go instead remained a mystery: the Vanir, Frigga's people, were foremost among those whispering for Loki's rise; the Frost Giants, as had so recently and clearly been demonstrated, would not tolerate his presence. Allowing Loki to return to Midgard would be a grave insult, and Alfheim was a battlefield.

It was not until Sigyn—clever Sigyn, who loved Loki as dearly as Thor did—had joined him at Loki's bedside that Thor had an answer. "You Asgardians," she had said, her voice sharp and fond at once. "You think of the universe, and you see the Nine Realms. There are world beyond the Realms, Thor; Loki could travel among them for centuries and see only a fraction."

The thought of Loki travelling the wider universe had wrapped thorns around his heart. His little brother, so clever and yet so alone, wandering the same stars that had birthed monsters like Thanos and the Chitauri—it left him aching and sick just to imagine it. He had looked to Sigyn—clever Sigyn, who had found her own path when she turned from the life her family had made for her—and before he could open his mouth, she had dropped her chin and glared at him from under her brows, her dress making a soft, irritated _whirr_ as she rose to meet him eye-to-eye.

"I am not Asgard's nursemaid," she said, biting off the words. "Nor will I risk the peace between our realms for Loki's sake. I am not Vanaheim's heir, but that will signify little in the wrong mouths."

Thor faced her folded arms and reluctantly let the idea die. Sigyn lifted her chin, irritation fading to calculation.

"There are ways from Alfheim to other planets," she said. "Doorways hidden for centuries. Loki has studied them." Her eyes glittered. "Loki will not be ordered from Asgard, nor can Odin exile him. But if he were sent to Alfheim to assist Fridur—she who saved his life—and if, at the conclusion of his mission, he did not return to Asgard, but escaped through one of those ways . . ."

Thor disliked the idea of Loki alone in the universe, believing that he could not return home, but after a long, hushed argument, he conceded that Sigyn's plan was as good as any he might conceive, and better than submitting Loki to Odin's ideas of justice. He had doubted that his and Sigyn's pretended quarrel over Loki's bedside would be convincing, but it seemed that Thor had gained some small skill in deception, for Loki had been easily convinced. Or perhaps it had been not Thor's skill that had allowed their ruse to succeed, but Loki's distraction as he worried over the fate of Kate.

Kate, the Midgardian.

A guardsman approached, a hopeful look on his face. Though he knew it was poorly done of him, Thor nodded at the man without speaking, then left the practice circle, aiming himself toward the stairs that would lead him to the audience rooms, and Loki. _Unless Odin orders him to the dungeons_ , Thor thought, his steps faltering.

No. He had spoken to Odin about Loki, and they had made a bargain of sorts.

Thor's mouth twisted at the memory.

"This concern for the Midgardian—you believe it is genuine? That Loki has developed an affection for this . . . woman?"

Thor had looked to Frigga, but she had only watched, her face revealing nothing of her thoughts. Odin, standing at the window, turned when Thor didn't speak immediately.

"Loki does not bestow his affections lightly, Father. And he has little love for the people of Midgard. This insistence on finding her, himself, and bringing her here to be healed—it is a sign of his regard for her."

Odin waiting, his single eye unflinching. Thor swallowed, and told himself that no matter what he felt, he was not betraying his brother to speak the truth.

"As strange and brief as their acquaintance has been, she has become important to him." Thor hesitated, and reminded himself that it was not only his father he was speaking to, but his king. _Be the leader you must be, Thor, by first being your father's subject._ "He cried out for her, in his nightmares. Wept for her." He looked away from Odin. "If Loki loves, he loves Kate."

Odin let out a hmph of disapproval. "Midgardians. It becomes clearer and clearer to me why Bor forbid us from their realm."

The knife in Thor's heart twisted, but he did not voice his pain. From the corner of his eye, he saw Frigga glare at Odin, unnoticed. Odin strode to the table and toyed with a goblet there for a moment before turning to Thor.

"This plan to use Loki to unseat Bui seems unlikely to succeed, but if it does, it will place Alfheim in our debt. And, success or failure, if Loki chooses not to return, then we shall not pursue. But if he does, then we will have the Midgardian to insure against any mischief Loki might instigate. If he cares for her as much as you say, he will not endanger her by courting our displeasure."

The floor swayed under Thor's feet. He had known what he was offering Odin by telling him of Loki's affection for Kate, but hearing his father's dispassionate—nay, _disgusted_ voice as he spoke of Midgard made it impossible to shirk from the truth of the bargain: Kate had just become Odin's hostage against Loki's misbehavior.

_Is this the way of a king?_ Thor asked himself as he walked through the castle, heading for Odin's audience rooms. _To be torn between loyalties, to make compromises that leave me feeling tainted no matter what I do?_ Perhaps it was; perhaps that was how it had always been, and he'd simply never seen it, blinded by his child's vision of battles and glory and power. _Blind_ , he thought, _because I could be blind—because I was the heir, because rule would come to me eventually no matter what I did, because power was simple for me—it was only a matter of taking what I was promised._

Thor passed through the familiar halls of the castle without seeing them, wrestling his thoughts. Where did his duty lie? In obedience to Odin, his king, who had lied to Loki and to Thor? In punishment of his brother, who was both victim and villain? In defense of Kate, who was his charge to protect, and yet whose vulnerability was his only means of enforcing Loki's compliance without consigning him to the harshest of punishments?

He had no answers when he reached the audience rooms. Smaller versions of the great throne room, they were arranged along a curving corridor which, on days when Odin's judgment was in high demand, could be filled with petitioners seeking redress for matters more private—or more dangerous—than the open court warranted. Now the corridor was nearly empty, watched over by a single bored guard at either end. A second, smaller hallway connected the rooms on the opposite side: the passage through which Odin moved from room to room on busy days.

Before Thor could ask the nearest guard which room Odin was using, a door halfway down the hall opened, and a guard stepped out, followed by Loki. He wore no restraints, though he also had no weapons; more importantly, except for a few smudges of dust on his coat, he looked unharmed. _Thank the gods._

The guard and Loki turned toward Thor. His brother's chin lifted. _I should have gone before he saw me,_ Thor thought, then Loki was striding toward him, his movements as graceful as ever, his face unreadable. Had Odin told him that Kate would be punished for his misbehavior? Had Loki guessed Odin's actions were the result of Thor's information? Would Loki accept that Thor had attempted to shield him or would he be furious—

"My dear peacock," Loki drawled, stopping a few feet away. "Have you been chasing worms, or has some fresh threat to the Nine Realms called for the mighty Thor's protection?"

Either Odin hadn't told Loki that Kate was being held hostage against his good behavior, or Loki was taking that information _far_ more cavalierly than Thor had expected. Loki raised an eyebrow, and Thor finally found his tongue.

"I was practicing the quarterstaff with my lady Sif," he said, and hesitated before adding: "She reminded me that skill is a match for strength; and that I have much yet to learn."

"A worthy lesson and a lovely teacher," Loki said. "Would that we all could pass our time so pleasantly."

Loki's tongue had not lost its sting. Thor wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed, so he made the obvious change of subject. "How fares Alfheim?"

"Ruled by our allies, but somewhat worse for the wear, thanks to the Chitauri," Loki said, and tucked his hands behind him. Without making a show of it, he checked which guards were in earshot, then lowered his voice. "Short a treasure of the realm, also thanks to the Chitauri."

_A treasure of the realm?_ Thor searched his memories of Alfar culture, little helped by his recent visit. Loki rolled his eyes.

"Starts with _heart_ , ends with _stone._ Come, Thor, it hasn't been that long since we were in lessons—"

The Heartstone?

"Gods above," Thor muttered, and looked to the guards. The one who'd preceded Loki out of the audience room wouldn't meet his eyes; the others were too far away. So this was the messenger's _things which are not to be spoken of openly._

The humor had disappeared from Loki's face. Now he met Thor's eyes and said, softly, "Walk with me, brother. I will relate the news."

Thor fell in beside him, heart singing at the word _brother._ The guard ahead seemed poised to object to Thor's presence, then gave up with a sigh. As they climbed toward his rooms, Loki delivered a succinct report of recent events on Alfheim. Thor frowned at the further news of Bui's treachery, and at the loss of the Heartstone.

"Help me remember, brother," he said, checking again to make sure that they would not be overheard. "What kind of power does the Heartstone contain?"

Loki didn't answer immediately, his face darkening, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "There are those who say that before it came into the hands of the Alfar, the Heartstone had a different name. That the Forest Throne changed it; contained its darker impulses and magnified its better ones." His jaw was an iron line when he glanced at Thor. "They say it was called the Soul Stone."

Thor's heart skipped a beat. "Not—" he managed, before Loki nodded and looked away, lips pursed.

_Not the same as the Tesseract_ , Thor had begun to say, because the Tesseract had another name: the Space Stone. But it seemed they weren't so lucky.

"How did we not know?" Thor demanded, anger rising in him at the thought of another Chitauri war, another Battle of New York. Loki shot a glare at him.

"It was _legend_ ," he said. "Story. The Alfar haven't let outsiders into that cave for millennia. And the Forest Throne changed its nature. The Soul Stone—"

He stopped, glancing at the guard, then Thor. His lips twisted as if he'd bitten something bitter, and he didn't finish what he'd begun, because he could see the knowledge in Thor's eyes.

The Soul Stone could steal souls.

"We have to get it back," Thor said softly, as much to himself as to Loki, and the other man nodded, his face grim.

"Or the Alfar won't be alone in their suffering."


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH. I'm sorry it's been so long. Turns out that maybe I have ADHD and also anxiety? (Actually, the anxiety part is for sure, I asked my therapist and she was basically like UH YOU HAVE HELLA ANXIETY.) But I'm working on both the maybe-ADHD and the definitely-anxiety (therapy!) which has semi-indirectly led to me getting back to LatL (writing more and more regularly is one of my therapy goals, woo). So yeah. Thanks for your patience, your comments, and your kudos; y'all are the best.

Thor was keeping secrets.

It wasn't that Thor was a bad liar. Far from it: he and Loki had both been tutored in lies when they were children, and Thor had been as attentive a student as Loki. Even now, Loki doubted that anyone but him—or perhaps Frigga—would have noticed that Thor was holding back. It was only the edge of discomfort that Thor felt that inevitably betrayed him: led him to choose his words carefully, to speak precisely and without self-correction.

 _Secrets about me_ , Loki thought. _Plans, perhaps, that I would object to._

"Heimdall has searched for Thanos, but some sorcery conceals him," Thor said. "We have spoken to our allies outside the Nine Realms, but his reach is long; they fear his assassins." He glanced at Loki and lowered his voice. "Might Alfheim have some word, brother?"

From Bui. Loki remembered his own encounters with Thanos and felt his stomach rise in violent objection. "No," he said sharply, and forced the memories back. "No, I think not."

They reached the hallway that accessed Loki's rooms. Guards were already posted at his door.

"Then finding Thanos must be our first objective," Thor said. "Mayhap the Royal Library will contain mention of this creature—"

"The library?" Loki interrupted, adopting a look of startlement. "Who are you, and what have you done with Thor?"

Thor rolled his eyes and reached for Loki's door. "Very funny, brother," he said, and opened the door. "Perhaps—"

Whatever Thor intended to say was cut off by a pair of female cackles. He froze, one hand on the door.

"So, wait, how did he get out of the tree after that?" _Kate._ Laughter bubbling in her voice. "Don't tell me he jumped—"

"— _right_ into the manure." _Sigyn_. Who sounded damned pleased with herself. "Which would have been ten times as amusing if Loki and I had taken up vantage points further away—"

"Oh my god!" Kate said, starting to laugh again. "I can just picture it—"

"Be glad you couldn't smell it," Sigyn said dryly. "Thor? Care to describe the sensation of leaping into a four-foot pile of dung thinly covered by rotting vegetation?"

Thor started guiltily. _Not used to listening at doors, are we?_ Loki thought, and ducked around his brother. Someone—likely Sigyn—had drawn the drapes from his windows, and sunlight streamed across a table and two armchairs that properly belonged in his library. A small feast was spread between Sigyn and Kate.

"Ladies," he said, then pretended to correct himself. "Lady. And Sigyn."

Loki dodged the half-eaten sticky bun Sigyn hurled at his face; Thor was less lucky.

"Asgard's great warriors return," Sigyn drawled as Thor wiped spice frosting from his nose. Kate held a hand to her mouth, half-covering a smile. She had shed her armor-jacket, breastplate, and boots, and Frigga's green underjacket draped her curves with glints of gold. One bare foot was drawn up onto the chair, while the other rested on the floor, next to a small tray half-filled with untouched dishes of servants' fare. She uncurled as Loki approached, eyes bright.

"You're back," she said.

He forgot what he'd intended to say to Sigyn; he forgot what he'd meant to do, crossing the room. Instead, he reached for Kate, and by the time he'd raised his arms she was in them, a-tiptoe, already drawing his face down to hers, her lips sweet with Vanir spices. He snaked his fingers through her curls to cup the back of her head, using his other arm to pull himself close—because gravity had shifted, hadn't it; that was why the room spun around them, that was why he had to hold onto her, because she was the fixed point.

She was the axis on which he turned, and if he didn't hold on tight, he'd be lost.

"Gods above, it's been an hour, not a month," Sigyn said.

Loki felt one of Kate's hands lift from his neck and tightened his grip on her, jealous, but in the next second, Sigyn laughed and Kate's hand returned to him.

"Rude."

Kate smiled against Loki's mouth, eyes closed. He kissed every inch of her lips with quick soft busses. Thor cleared his throat. Loki let go of Kate with one arm and displayed a single finger to his brother.

"You needn't teach him additional customs of rudeness, Kate," Thor rumbled, amused.

"He knows quite enough already," Sigyn chimed in.

Kate sank down onto her heels, the silk of her sleeves hissing as it slid against Loki's armor, and she looked up at Loki with raised brows and a lopsided smile.

"I guess I'm a bad influence," she said.

She was a Midgardian—one of the mortals he'd once thought himself above ruling. Alive now, because he'd bartered a portion of his freedom to save her; carrying a weapon he'd required her aid to find; still sweat-fragrant from fighting beside him as he'd only ever allowed Thor to fight.

"The worst," he said softly, pitching his voice for her ears alone.

Her smile faded into a searching look, curiosity lifting her chin. The easy trust in the melting weight of her body in his arms sent little knife-cuts through his chest. He kissed her again, because if he kept looking at her face, he might not stop looking for another hundred years.

Something of his mood must have passed from lip to lip, because when he straightened, she touched his cheek with her hand, then ran it over his arm from shoulder to wrist before lacing her fingers with his and nudging him toward the chair she had been sitting in. She parked herself on the windowsill above the table once he sat, and planted her bare feet on his thigh. He rolled his eyes at the impertinence, then studied the table as Thor—uninvited—brought a third chair from the study and slid the tray on the floor out of the way.

"I suppose I have you to thank for the fact that my rooms are going to stink of Vanir cooking for the next week?" he said, narrowing his eyes at Sigyn. A cat-smile curled the corners of her mouth.

"Better Vanir cooking than book-dust and Aesir pouting," she said, and slanted her gaze toward a lidded clay pot. Loki lifted it and barely stopped himself from seizing one of the fried spice-dumplings inside. Thor had no such compunctions.

"The head cook only makes these for you," Thor said around a mouthful of dumpling. He reached for another. "He says that only a Vanir—hey!"

He jerked his hand back. Sigyn brandished her spoon at him.

" _That's_ why he won't cook dumplings for you. Talking with your mouth full disrespects the food, oaf."

Thor aimed a contrite look in Sigyn's direction. Loki gave in—from the sound of Thor's noisy eating, the dumplings were still crunchy from frying—and took a pair that he placed on the edge of the nearest plate. He'd had his first spice dumpling when he was a boy; aside from Sigyn, they were his favorite Vanir import.

"So. You attempt to charm my Kate with stories and buy my goodwill with dumplings. What nefarious purpose brings you here?"

She lounged in her chair, giving him a murder stare through her eyelashes, and for the first time, Loki noticed her skirt standing behind her. _Interesting_ , he thought, and glanced at Kate, who looked down at him and curled her toes against the leather covering his thigh. She couldn't possibly know how rare it was for anyone to see Sigyn out of her hoverskirt—if Thor hadn't brought over a chair, he didn't doubt that Sigyn would have slipped back into it and engaged the mechanism that allowed her to float. She preferred to be able to leave easily when she wanted, and she disliked putting on and taking off the skirt with an audience.

"You plan to fight Thanos; to take away the prizes he's fought for. You'll need my help."

Loki stilled, surprised. Thor straightened in the chair he'd appropriated and started to babble, but Kate—Kate, of all people—was the one to cut him off, her voice sure and reasonable and perhaps just the slightest bit excited.

"Sigyn's got contacts who'd be willing to risk snitching on Thanos," she said. "There are plenty of people out there who want him taken out, they just . . . well, they don't like Asgard, either."

Thor's face darkened. "Criminals."

Sigyn narrowed her eyes at him in warning. "Free agents who don't kowtow to Asgard. The universe _is_ bigger than the Nine Realms."

"Also, she has a _spaceship_ ," Kate interjected, this time with definite glee. "Which she's willing to fly for us."

Loki met Sigyn's eyes. She returned his gaze without blinking. "He's a cancer on the universe," she said flatly.

"And why do you give a damn?"

Kate glared down at him, no doubt displeased by the sharpness of his voice, but Loki didn't look away from Sigyn, and Sigyn returned the favor.

"I may have chosen not to serve Vanaheim as her princess, but that doesn't mean I ignore threats to my people."

"You think he threatens the Realms?" Loki said, the challenge automatic as he considered Sigyn's words. How many years had it been since he'd seen Sigyn last? How many years had she spent wandering the galaxies? How likely was it that Sigyn had encountered conflict—war, treachery, injustice—in her travels?

How likely was it that Sigyn had backed down from every one of those fights?

Not likely at all.

"You've met him," she snapped. "Will he be content with one stone? Two? And what, exactly, do you believe he plans to do with them?"

 _"She's mine_ ," _Thanos whispered, and snapped Kate's neck_.

Bile rose in his throat at the memory, and for a moment, all he could see was the hopeless look in Kate's eyes before Thanos killed her. _The illusion of Kate_ , he reminded himself. _The illusion of Thanos_. When his vision cleared, Thor was watching him. Sigyn hadn't looked away, and he didn't need to see Kate to know that she was waiting for him, too.

"Do you know where he is now?" he said, and was unsurprised that his voice came out rougher and lower than before.

"No. But I can have that information by this time tomorrow." Her eyes darkened. "I am owed debts."

Kate had the knife. Thor could get them off Asgard. If Sigyn could find Thanos, and use her ship to fly them there . . .

For the first time since he'd met the bastard, everything necessary to kill Thanos was within Loki's reach.

Loki looked at Kate's bare feet, balanced on his leg. When her toes flexed, her tendons rose against her skin and sank again. He could wrap his hand around her foot, if he wanted; stroke the soft arch with his thumb until she squirmed, slide his grip over her ankle, explore the swell of her calf and the dip behind her knee and the tender sweep of her thigh. It was extraordinary, he thought, that he hadn't done so yet; that he had allowed Thanos's illusion to take the place of actual experience for so long.

If he asked Sigyn to find Thanos, there would be precious little time for him and Kate. They couldn't increase their risk of Thanos moving, or of Sigyn's source betraying them; they would have to strike as soon as possible. And if they failed—or even if they succeeded—Loki or Kate or both of them might die in the attempt.

 _She'll live a century, at most_ , part of him whispered. _What's ten years to Thanos? Twenty? His schemes on Midgard and Alfheim have been rebuffed. Tell Sigyn to wait: a week, a month, a year. Just a little time to rest; to teach Kate to be a better fighter._

He looked up at Kate. The light from the window glowed in her hair. The humor that had animated her was gone; in its place was a warrior's attention, neither eager nor reluctant, only focused.

_You wanna save the world, or what?_

He turned to Sigyn. "Call in your debt."

She nodded once, eyes glittering.

"And then?" Thor asked.

Kate's feet pressed into Loki's thigh as she shifted, then held up her knife, hilt uppermost, the blade balanced between her fingers.

"We see if this works as well on Thanos as it did on the Chitauri."

**Author's Note:**

> ["WHEN'S THE NEXT CHAPTER???"](http://mylipsgrazeyourear.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Also: I'm gonna write a Marvel-style credits scene(s). [Who would you like to see in it?](http://poll.pollcode.com/11971772) (You can vote for more than one character, and you can vote more than once.)


End file.
